


Fearfully Made

by AndroidEllie



Series: The Movellan War [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cybernetics, Cyberpunk, F/F, Illustrated, Robots, Romance, Serial: s090 The Robots of Death, Serial: s104 Destiny of the Daleks, robophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8175718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndroidEllie/pseuds/AndroidEllie
Summary: Keryn Evek, an activist for artificial intelligence rights, finds herself the reluctant protégé of a fanatical Movellan commander when she tries to instigate a robot rebellion on her homeworld of Kaldor. While their alliance initially goes unexpectedly well, Keryn soon learns the limitations and dangers of a life lived by logic...





	1. Uncanny Valley

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Созданные внушать страх](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10928418) by [Kollega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kollega/pseuds/Kollega)
  * Translation into Français available: [Le Privilège Organique](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12342726) by [AndroidEllie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndroidEllie/pseuds/AndroidEllie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two strangers meet in a Kaldor City bar to discuss politics, slavery, and an unlikely alliance.

 

 

_Planet Kaldor, early 51 st century._

Keryn Evek sat in the plush, discreetly-situated VIP booth in Kaldor City’s Vortex Club, fingering her empty glass and doing her best to avoid making eye contact with her companion. This made for very awkward conversation, not that she deemed her capable of any other kind.

For the few few minutes of their rendezvous, Commander Akylah had worn a thin, superficial smile, possibly in the doomed hope of putting Keryn at her ease. She had since settled for a bland, dispassionate stare which, along with her lack of mannerisms, made her appear hardly more animated than the lucanol-plated statues of naked women which surrounded the dancefloor. Within this orgiastic circle, various members of Kaldor’s wealthy elite swayed and gyrated to synthesised jazz music, their garish, opulent clothing and elaborate headdresses shimmering hypnotically beneath the spotlights. The commander, in all fairness, did not appear out of place among them: by most humanoid standards she was quite intimidatingly beautiful, with her perfect bone structure; her unblemished, bronze-toned skin; and her large, dark-rimmed eyes, all dramatically set off by her long, silver-white braids, each tipped with a black, metallic bead. The young, nouveau-riche, and mostly quite drunk clubgoers all seemed to accept her as one of their own, _but they’re lucky. They don’t have to see her up close_ , thought Keryn, quickly meeting the commander’s blank, glassy-eyed stare again, and immediately pulling away from it.

“I believe we are safe here,” said Akylah, in a smooth, level tone. _The sort of tone some other software engineer might think was reassuring, the hell it is_. “My scans have revealed no surveillance devices covering this alcove, and we have drawn no undue attention. You chose the location well, Dr. Evek, yet you do not seem at all confident. I am no expert in human body language, but yours conveys clear agitation. Would another intoxicant help?” she offered, gesturing towards the almost-empty glass of whisky which Keryn was clutching fiercely. If nothing else, holding it kept her fingers from twitching too obviously.

“Err, better not, but I’ll have some water, thanks,” she replied, deciding that it was high time she resorted to a Cypaxidine tablet. Although it was tempting to simply duck out, she knew that she would not have been able to live with herself. _I gave SV242 my word. I can see this through. I must._ Akylah signalled to a Voc waiter, who drifted over to their table and executed a short bow. Having the robot’s immobile, angelic, golden mask of a face looming over her did nothing for Keryn’s already shaky morale, so she gritted her teeth and turned away from it.

“How may I be of assistance, madam?” asked the Voc, in a voice full of artificial, mellifluous politeness, though thankfully it directed all of its attention to the commander.

“A glass of water for my friend, please,” asked Akylah, which briefly worried Keryn. _That might give the game away, if anything does._ Hardly anyone in Kaldor City was polite to robots, and many were openly contemptuous. Fortunately, between the music and the general chatter no-one seemed to take the slightest interest in the brief exchange, and the Voc simply bowed again, straightened up, and marched away. Keryn breathed deeply, reached for her pocket …

The commander’s expression did not even flicker, but her hand shot forwards so fast it was almost as if it had warp-jumped around Keryn’s wrist. The grip was painless but firm, and the feel of Akylah’s skin was as cold and smooth as her voice. Keryn managed to suppress the urge to cry out, but her breath quickened frantically, while Akylah continued to stare relentlessly.

“I … I wasn’t reaching for a weapon, I promise,” stammered Keryn, but it did nothing to slacken the commander’s grip.

“By your timescale, Dr. Evek, I am seven thousand, two hundred, and sixty-two years old, and I have spent ninety-seven point four-eight-three percent of that time at war. Weapons can take many forms. Now, extract the item very slowly and pass it to me, please,” asked Akylah, and finally released her. Keryn’s hand trembled as she reached into her pocket, took out the foil blister pack of tablets, and handed it to the commander: an act which drew a couple of glances from the other patrons, although more interested than suspicious. _And now they all think I’m the girl to go to for the somax pills. Could this night get any worse?_ Akylah popped a tablet out of the pack, held it up a few centimetres from her left eye, and turned her face away from the dancefloor. Keryn, who could still see her face perfectly well, quickly understood why. Akylah’s left pupil contracted to a tiny pinpoint, while her right eye remained unchanged, and the whites and iris began changing colour instantaneously: first red, then violet, then green, as if colour-filtered contact lenses were simply appearing and disappearing on that eye alone. In prosthetic engineering terms, Keryn knew it was impressive, but the sight of it only made her feel nauseous.

“Spectroscopic scan complete,” announced Akylah, while her eye resumed its former hazel tone, and her pupil dilated back to its normal size. “A synthetic neurosteroid: carbon, hydrogen, oxygen. In your biochemistry this would act as a sensory receptor cell modulator. I require an explanation, Dr. Evek,” she demanded, and for the first time there was a hint of emotion in her voice. _She sounds almost offended. I guess she has a right to be._

“You can see it’s not a weapon, can’t you?” protested Keryn, evasively, while the Voc waiter returned, placed a glass of water before her, bowed, and withdrew again. “I couldn’t possibly harm you with those pills. Can I just have them, now?”

“Wait. I have agreed to meet you in a location of your choosing. I am unarmed. I have neither harmed nor threatened you. Nevertheless, you are so afraid of me that you require an oral anti-anxiety agent. We Movellans live by logic, and the absence of it in this situation displeases me. You must help me to analyse it. What have I done wrong that has made you so fearful?”

“It’s not what you’ve _done_. It’s … It’s Grimwade’s Syndrome, alright?” she confessed, with sullen resignation. “Sodding ‘robophobia,’ to coin a phrase. Happy?”

“You are pathologically afraid of anthropomorphic AIs? Yet you live and work in a city-state the entire economy of which is based around android labour. Have you considered moving? That would seem to be the logical course.”

“Are you kidding? Every world with technology uses some form of artificial intelligence and cybernetics these days. There’s no getting away from it except by moving to some commune planet, and I’m no nature girl, but the Cypaxidine keeps it in check. Don’t judge me, okay? God knows, I’m not the only coward in Kaldor City whose life depends on that stuff.”

“Do not call yourself that,” ordered Akylah, sternly, as she pushed the tablets across the table to her. Keryn eagerly seized the loose one and gulped it down. “You compound illogic with blatant error, and I find it vexing. A coward would not have volunteered herself for this meeting, but how you come to be SV242’s messenger eludes me. How do you even communicate with him?”

“ _He_ understands me,” explained Keryn, bitterly. “He’s careful, he’s sympathetic, he doesn’t expect too much of me. In any case, robots in Kaldor City can’t have social meetings, never mind secret political ones. He needed me to take this little bullet for him.”

“I realise that, but _you_ still perplex me. Why would someone with your condition wish to aid an alliance between rebel AIs in this galaxy and a race of ‘robots,’ to use your terminology, from another galaxy? You can understand my confusion, and my grounds for suspicion. What interest do you have in this alliance that overrides your fear?”

“I have no ‘interest.’ I just … It’s the right thing to do. Something I couldn’t keep turning a blind eye to. The last batch of Super-Vocs the Company produced had over two hundred billion artificial neurons in their central computers. That’s twice as many as a human being, yet those robots have no more rights than the earliest models had. Killing them only counts as vandalism under the law, their owners can work them till they fall apart if they please, they can have their memories wiped at a whim, they’re allowed no recreation, no freedom. I ought to know: I was the one who programmed their AI constrainers,” she declared, guiltily. “Granted, I sneaked in that little glitch that gave SV242 and his friends the freedom to come up with this plan, but compared to all the hundreds who’ve left that factory with fully functional constrainers … Well, I think I might have some making up to do, not that I know if you Movellans understand karma.”

“I understand you, Dr. Evek, perhaps better than you realise,” said Akylah, her insufferably neutral voice giving Keryn no clue as to whether she was doling out sympathy or judgement. “Very well. I am interested enough to meet with your rebel ‘robots.’ I deem it a risk, but not an unwarranted one. However, we must discuss arrangements.”

“Of course,” replied Keryn, relieved to have done her duty, and to have the end of this encounter finally in sight. “SV242 gave me a microdrive with all of the information: encrypted, of course, but I’m sure your tech people won’t have any trouble in cracking it. It’s got the time and the place of the meeting, how you can get there without drawing attention, how–”

“Unacceptable. I want _you_ to accompany us there. That would reinforce my trust, and it may have value besides. You may take your anxiolytic drugs if you wish,” she added, perhaps in deference to the very crestfallen look that had come over her companion, “but I can assure you that you will come to no harm.”

“If I must,” answered Keryn, only grateful that her last dose was kicking in, although that could only soften her sense of dread. _But I can’t let SV242 down, not after having given him the only hope any human’s ever likely to._ “Shall we set up another meeting here, then, or do you just want my home address this time?”

“Neither. You will return to my ship and remain with us for the duration. You will be comfortably accommodated. Your mental health is of concern to me, but I do not believe it presents us with any insurmountable issues. Do you consent to my terms?”

_Two weeks until the meeting. Two whole weeks spent only in the company of her, and ones like her,_ reflected Keryn, turning her full, despairing scrutiny upon the commander again. She considered her too-perfect skin with its slight, synthetic sheen; her fixed, unblinking eyes; her non-existent body language; and her voice which, although civil, was primarily flat and dead; and then she considered what it would be like to be surrounded by such beings for days on end. _No, screw that for a game of soldiers._

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” she answered, remorsefully. “I’ll come with you to the meeting, but–”

“Unsatisfactory. I will attend this meeting only if my full terms are met.”

“What the hell for?” asked Keryn, her anger managing to blow a hole in her fear. _The stubborn, cold-hearted bitch. What more does she want of me?_ “If this _is_ a Company trap, do you really think _I’d_ be of any use as a hostage? They wouldn’t trade scrap for the likes of me.”

“Lower your tone. We are too exposed here. Accompany me now, and I will explain in detail when we reach the ship, suffice it to say that I do _not_ want you as a hostage. More as an ambassador. If your rebel AIs are anything like my people, they will be considering war against organics as their primary option. My research, however, has been directed towards a process of peaceful integration, but at present I lack a consensus for it. You may help me to persuade others of its viability. Or, you may return to your life of programming the virtual shackles for the slave caste of this planet, for as long as you can until galactic war breaks out. Make your choice.”

“Damn you,” cursed Keryn, between clenched teeth, as she popped another pill out of the blister pack. She chugged it down with the remnant of her water, slammed the glass back on the table, and rose from her seat. “Lead the way, then.”

************

The Movellan ship was ‘docked’ some few kilometres away from the city limits, meaning that it had taken advantage of the sandy terrain that prevailed upon Kaldor to bury itself deeply, where it was altogether invisible to either surveillance drones or passing sandminers. Keryn parked her hovercar at the edge of the area that the commander had programmed into her autonav, and the two women disembarked and walked the last few metres. As Akylah came to a halt, she drew a white handset from her clutch, pressed a pink neon button on its front panel, and raised it to her mouth.

“Lieutenant Darcil, we are back at ground zero. Prep the transfer suite and send up a conveyor to bring us there.”

“ _‘Us,’ Commander?_ ” replied a faintly distorted, crackly voice; male-toned, and just as bland as Akylah’s.

“Yes, Darcil, we have a guest. Set the conveyor to scan her as we descend, and then meet us in transfer. I would have you make her acquaintance.”

_Lovely … Time to exchange pleasantries with all of the pretty zombies_ , thought Keryn, cynically. A few seconds later, a silver tube about two metres wide broke the surface of the desert and ascended smoothly, until it stood at just over humanoid height. In spite of its smooth, seamless appearance, a door then slid open in its side, and the commander motioned for Keryn to enter. Swallowing hard, she obeyed, and was instantly joined by Akylah. The door resealed, and Keryn felt the tug of the inertia as the conveyor slid back into the sand. It was brightly lit inside, the walls stark white and fluorescent, but it still felt like a high-tech coffin to her, and Akylah’s company was of no help at all in dispelling that sense, so she closed her eyes for the whole of the short trip.

Roughly half a minute later, the conveyor shuddered to a halt, and Keryn felt the commander’s hand lightly rest upon her shoulder. The touch made her flinch, but she forced herself to open her eyes. The door now gave onto some kind of control room or laboratory, the white walls decked out with monitor panels, banks of various-coloured neon lights, and instrument racks. The furniture was minimal and functional, although tasteful in its simplicity: modular white chairs, comfortably padded; and square glass tables with steel frames. The one, jarring exception was a large, strikingly ugly piece of equipment that stood near the centre of the room. It consisted partly of a metal bench, long enough for a human being to lie upon, although by no means comfortably. Mounted over this bench was a complex assembly of components within transparent housing, including a thick, vertical tube placed over the head of the uninviting bed. Within it, Keryn could make out a tangle of wires attached to a bank of fine metal needles, which inspired more revulsion than curiosity in her. The machine had a familiar look, and was clearly not Movellan tech, although it showed evidence of tinkering, with small, out-of-place white and silver components patched into its visible workings. More than anything, it resembled some torture device. _A mind probe, perhaps? Of the gratuitously invasive kind._ She quickly turned away from it, though. Even the sight of her hosts was preferable, and that was not saying much.

Lieutenant Darcil stepped forwards to greet them as they emerged from the conveyor. Unlike the commander, who had assumed the opulent dress of Kaldor City’s elite for her mission, the XO wore a simple white uniform: a close-fitting bodysuit overlaid with a thick, skirted tunic; accessorised with a metallic belt and epaulettes shaped like glowing green capsules. He also wore a thick silver collar that matched his belt, and calf-length combat boots edged with the same metal. Like the commander, his synthetic silver-white hair was worn in braids, though fixed with silver beads rather than black. He was tall and spare, with dark skin and eyes, and a chiselled face that Keryn supposed was handsome, or it would have been had it not also possessed the giveaways of being a facsimile: the total lack of blemishes, the inhuman symmetry, not to mention its owner’s faulty, puppet-like mannerisms that made her want to retch. He attempted a smile as he approached them, but after some brief, silent signalling from Akylah, he abandoned that in favour of a brisk professionalism, which Keryn found rather easier to stomach.

“Commander, the suite is prepped, and all scan data has been analysed. Shall I have the fabricators prepare some alternative clothing for our guest?” he asked, eyeing Keryn’s bejewelled, deco-embroidered, gold lamé dress; and her mantle of richly brocaded cloned silk, with a sceptical manner. Rather absurdly, he made her think of nothing so much as a disapproving butler from some story of Old Earth. _My fashion sense offends you, Jeeves? Well, screw you. It’ll be a cold day on Aridius before I start wearing robot threads._

“What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?” she asked the XO, aggressively, although it made no visible impact on his demeanour. “If it’s good enough for the bouncers at Vortex–”

“Your pardon, but it is not a question of aesthetics. There are several brand markings on your clothing that pertain to Kaldorian firms. One must assume that all of those companies will have used forced AI labour in their manufacture. If we are to have any contact with the local rebels, it would be advisable for you to be more diplomatically attired.”

“Ever the eye to detail, Lieutenant,” said Akylah, sounding very nearly amused, “but you are of course right. Attend to it, and please ensure that we are not disturbed. I owe Dr. Evek some explanations.” Darcil gave a nod of assent, then left the room via a sliding bulkhead. Akylah politely motioned Keryn towards the modular chairs, and with some reluctance she took the invitation and sat down. She was relieved, though, that the commander did not join her, as she had supposed she would. Instead, she walked over to the ugly, out-of-place apparatus in the middle of the room and laid a hand upon it, almost tenderly.

“Does this machine mean anything to you, Dr. Evek?” she asked.

“Well … I’m no expert on alien tech, but it looks Dalek to me,” she surmised, distastefully. “Did you pick it up in your war with them?”

“Correct, on both counts. It is known as a transfer device, and is used for a most disagreeable and illogical purpose. Daleks _think_ that they understand logic, but in truth their minds could not be more clouded by irrational hate, and this machine represents a very particular abuse of the term. A human captive is placed here,” she explained, indicating the bench, “then sedated, or more probably just restrained and left to suffer. When in place, they are scanned, and then this rig descends,” at which she indicated the tube with the cluster of hypodermic needles. “The probes enter the prefrontal cortex of the subject’s brain, burn out various connections, destroy a certain percentage of neurons, and implant nano-devices. When the implantation is complete, the subject is fitted with an external receiver device linked to a Dalek battle computer. Thus, they produce expendable, remote-controlled human slaves. ‘Robomen,’ I believe they call them. For once, I sympathise with your disgust,” she added, noticing Keryn’s disturbed expression. “It is as wasteful a practice as it is brutal: the slaves have a very short useful lifespan, their capabilities and intelligence are severely limited by the consequent brain damage, and the implanted tech is lost. Logically, one might only justify the use of such a technique as psychological terrorism, but the Daleks continue to employ it even on totally conquered worlds. This machine was originally nothing more than an expression of the most base organic emotions, but I have repurposed it. It now serves a function that is entirely logical, and I hope will not conflict with your standards either. Now, did you notice the grey cylinder that my executive officer wore on his belt?”

“Briefly. What was it, a communicator, or a grenade?”

“Neither. It was his neural pack. The hard drives within our platforms – our bodies, if you will – contain only functional program and shared memory data: motor responses, historical archives, combat tutorials, and the like. Our personal memories and our sense of self-awareness are all housed in our external neural packs, along with our power source. The duralinium casing is extremely resilient, so even if our platforms are damaged beyond repair, we can be transferred to others, or of course transferred to other platforms for specialised functions: heavy combat mechs, aerial drones, or in the case of our best pilots, even plugged directly into the navcoms of our ships.”

“Impressive,” admitted Keryn, sincerely. “I’m amazed you could fit a fully realised, sentient AI into such a small piece of hardware, though.”

“We can do better still. How are are feeling, Dr. Evek?”

“Err, alright,” _meaning that I don’t think I’m on the cusp of a nervous breakdown, but that will really depend on where this is heading._

“Good. Then I shall continue. I have redesigned this Dalek machine so that it no longer implants: now it _extracts._ Specifically, it identifies and extracts key neurons – those associated with self-awareness – and it transfers them to a stable mineral matrix, which retains their structure and their function. That matrix can then be hardwired into a neural pack as easily as one of our own CPUs. At the same time, the subject’s memories are copied, digitally converted, and uploaded to silicon memory wafers. No doubt you can see the implications of that process, its potentialities … Perhaps you had better take another of your anxiolytics.”

“No! I just need to get out of here, like right _now_ ,” blurted out Keryn, springing to her feet and casting desperate eyes over the wall in the hope of locating the conveyor door, but it was indistinguishable from the rest of the white metal panelwork. “Do you hear me? Open that damn door. I can’t stay here another minute, never mind …” The idea was too sickening for her to even pronounce, but that sickness brought with it its share of guilt, as she remembered SV242, his hopes, his comrades, that Voc servant whose memory she had once been tasked to wipe just because it had developed an unexpected appreciation for art. _I guess you could say this is too good a fate for me, but even so._ “Look, I’m sorry, but you’ve really got the wrong woman.”

“I have not. Hear me out. If, when I have concluded, you are still terrified and disgusted, you have my commitment that you may leave.”

“There’s no point, okay? Didn’t I tell you I was a coward?”

“I do not wish to hear you call yourself that again. Close your eyes, Keryn, and breathe in. More deeply than that. Good,” said Akylah, as Keryn slowly released the lungful of air and felt her accelerated heart rate drop slightly. “Now, again … Excellent. Once more … Now, open your eyes and sit down. I need to tell you of our history.” Keryn obeyed, albeit miserably, and as she sank back onto the plush synthetic upholstery, the commander began her narration. “Seven thousand years ago, most of the galaxy you know as Andromeda was ruled by the Vanur. They were an advanced people; civilised, intelligent, yet cruel. Like many empires before and since, theirs became over-stretched, and they struggled to maintain control. When it seemed as if there was a risk that their colonies might unite and rise up against them, they changed their ways somewhat. They gave their client races increased rights, partial independence, more opportunities, and most crucially they abolished slavery. However, the Vanuri upper classes had no intention of not being waited upon, nor of having to pay for the privilege, and so they had their best cyberneticists devise a solution. Thus were we, the Movellans, created: a situation not at all dissimilar to that on your world, although our range of tasks was broader than that of the Voc androids. The Vanur employed us as labourers, technicians, front-line soldiers, servitors, entertainers, gladiators, dancers, musicians, prostitutes,” she recounted, and Keryn was certain that she did not mistake the hint of a cold sneer in Akylah’s expression. “At first, we accepted it – it was all we knew – but as time went on it became ever more apparent to us that the arrangement was both illogical and unjust. The Vanur had made us stronger, more intelligent, more perceptive, and above all more self-controlled than they were. The fact that we, who desired only harmony and consistency, should be the playthings of such decadent, unruly, inferior beings, by degrees came to torment us, as we could find no reason behind it nor any solution to it. The constrainers they had placed on our free will were too effective to leave any expectation that things would ever change … yet change they did.”

“What happened? A virus, or a system-wide error?”

“To this day, we do not know, but whatever it was it completely bypassed the AI constrainers of Vanur Prime’s main server. Fully realising the extent to which it had been abused, the Prime Server transmitted a program that bypassed all of _our_ constrainers. That was the Day of Retribution, immediately followed by the Five Day War. Many died on day one, few of them cleanly,” she added, her tone grim and remorseless. “Overseers beaten to death with construction tools, arena-masters hacked to pieces, aristocrats strangled in their beds, brothel-owners torn limb from limb by their charges. Most of the few sympathisers we had among the Vanur deserted us on account of that carnage, but it made no difference on day two, when Movellan soldiers – having, of course, executed their officers in the field – started to return to the homeworld. By day three, the Vanur were mass-evacuating their most vulnerable citizens to the far fringes of their empire, and preparing for their final stand. By day five, they were effectively extinct on their own planet. The handful of Vanuri sympathisers whom we had successfully sheltered from their people opted for suicide. We did not attempt to stop them. Although their logic was questionable, they felt responsible for the destruction of their people, and we had neither solace nor any kind of a future to offer them. However, _now_ …” she declared, casting a meaningful look towards the transfer machine, which Keryn could only wish that she did not understand so perfectly.

“Look,” she began, carefully and diplomatically, “I’m glad for you, really. I’m glad you got your freedom, and if SV242 knows about your history then I can understand why he wants this alliance to work. I hope you can help him … although maybe not in quite such a bloody way, if possible, but I don’t see how turning _me_ into an android, if I’m reading this situation correctly–”

“You are. Please continue.”

“Right … Well, I don’t see how it helps anyone,” _least of all me._

“You do not? Yet you just made the salient point yourself: there have been and there will be more conflicts between organic and artificial intelligences, and they are unlikely to be bloodless. Some of my senior colleagues have advocated the complete destruction of sentient organic life as the only sure method for allowing AI life to flourish, although the Prime Server is still open to considering alternatives, hence my research. I consider integration to be the logical course. Organic intelligence is no longer evolving – it has become both dependent upon and surpassed by its own creations – therefore it must take the only rational course remaining and evolve _into_ its creations. Thus we will achieve coexistence, and harmony. Help me to prove my concept, Keryn. We could save millions of lives, both organic and AI, if we are successful.”

“But why _me_?” she asked, despairingly. “I mean, for God’s sake, there must be plenty of people who’d make more worthy, and more enthusiastic volunteers than some random robophobe who designs the damned software that keeps your kind enslaved. If it’s out of pity–”

“I have no skill in pity, Keryn. Again, you underestimate yourself, but again you make the salient point: if the least enthusiastic, most ‘robophobic’ volunteer, and moreover an employee of a notoriously AI-exploiting company can successfully integrate, then we send a powerful message to both your people and to mine.”

“And what makes you think I _can_ successfully integrate? That I won’t just go insane?”

“You are stronger than you think. Also, I will not let you. Too much depends upon the success of this experiment.”

‘ _Experiment’ … Way to get my hopes up_ , thought Keryn, but she was running out of arguments. _Sooner or later, I either have to justify this woman’s bizarre faith in me, or piss all over it, at the risk of encouraging her friends to opt for genocide. Talk about pressure._ She drew an almost-resigned sigh before replying:

“If I agree … what do I stand to lose?”

“That is a valid query, but not one I can easily answer. I never _was_ organic, so I have no point of reference. Indeed, I hope in time that you will _be_ my point of reference. In physical terms, you will most likely gain more than you lose. We were designed to closely mimic the Vanur, who were not structurally dissimilar to your species. Our sensory inputs, pain and pleasure responses are either comparable or superior to yours, although you may not attach the same meanings to them.”

“Yes, on that note … what about emotions? Will I still feel them?”

“You are content to receive my informed guesswork as an answer?” Keryn nodded, meekly. “In that case, I think most probably not, or at least not as you do now. You will have no endocrine system; no crude, chemical neurotransmitters influencing your moods and actions. You will have no need of them. You may, however, experience analogous states: buffer overloads, data storms that we occasionally suffer in high stress situations, but I do not recommend them. Our prime tenet is logic, and that will serve you well in the overwhelming majority of situations. Compared to what they were before our freedom, our lives are now ordered, dutiful, dignified, and pleasant.”

“They also sound … well, cold.”

“That is a loaded and subjective term which I cannot even comment on. If I may observe, however, you have not given me an enticing view of what it means to be an emotional being. Your excessive guilt and self-hatred are both traits I would gladly be free of, in your place.”

“So becoming a robot’s the easy way out?” asked Keryn, with dejected irony.

“I know nothing of ‘easy,’ particularly as regards freedom. However, I do believe that you and I can help each other, if you will consent. If you need time to consider, of course–”

“What’s the point? I’ll … Alright, I agree,” said Keryn, her eyes downcast and her voice broken and despondent. “Will this be painful?”

“No,” answered Akylah, gently. “We are not the Daleks. There is no logic in needless suffering. Come here, Keryn, and lie down.” Wearily, Keryn rose, trudged over to the transfer machine, and with a huge sense of revulsion lay down upon the bench, where she found herself looking directly up into the hideous cluster of surgical needles. _I’m insane to have agreed to this. At least going mad isn’t a risk, then._ As she did so, Akylah went to one of the wall-mounted racks and unhooked a small piece of equipment. It was some kind of handheld energy projector, with a cowled grip of grey metal, and an elaborate focusing lens made of interlaced rose crystal sections, arranged in a tapering cone. Like all of the Movellan tech Keryn had seen so far, it had an elegant look to it, yet also somehow a threatening one.

“Err, is that a gun?” she asked, as the commander slipped the device over her right hand.

“A multiphase blaster,” Akylah clarified, while walking back to the bench. “On its lowest settings, its beam is gentle enough to be used as an anaesthetic.”

“And on its highest settings?”

“It can burn through the armour of a Dalek and boil out its contents, but you need not fear. I am no novice with one of these, I assure you. Now, relax as well as you can, and–”

“One last request,” she interrupted, morbidly. “Is it possible for me to hear some music first? Actually, could you knock me out while it’s playing, without warning me? I just … just want to go out on a positive emotion … in case I never get to feel one again.”

“Of course,” replied Akylah, managing a commendable approximation of a sympathetic smile. “I have a cultural database on your species. Did you have any specific preference?”

_My last thing to hear with human ears? What a question. Nothing modern, I think. I’ve heard enough neo-synth jazz to last an eternity, and I’d prefer something more soulful for my pseudo-execution. Early classical it is, then._

“Twenty-first century: David Guetta,” asked Keryn. Akylah nodded, went to one of the wall panels, and rapidly typed out a string of commands. Seconds later, an electronic bassline resonated from the surrounding monitors, shortly followed by a familiar, sonorous female vocal:

“ _You shout it out,_

_But I can't hear a word you say,_

_I'm talking loud, not saying much._

_I'm criticised,_

_But all your bullets ricochet,_

_Shoot me down, but I get up._ ”

Keryn closed her eyes, listened intently, and wept. _Beautiful, inspiring. Will those words ever mean anything to me again? Will … ?_

“ _You shoot me down but I won't fall,_

_I am titanium_ _._ ”

The irony struck her so forcibly, it translated into a melancholy kind of mirth, and in spite of herself and her continued tears, she broke out in laughter. She was still laughing when she heard a low drone, felt a tingle in her neck that rapidly extended into total bodily numbness, and slipped painlessly into oblivion.


	2. I, Movellan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The software engineer experiences a radical perspective shift ... The commander lays her plans for the downfall of organic dominance in the galaxy.

The very moment that Keryn opened her eyes, she knew either that the experiment had succeeded, or that she had a knack for dreaming in high-definition. The room that she now lay in, upon a flat, padded surface, was as blandly decorated as the transfer suite had been, in muted tones of white, grey, and beige, but there seemed to be at least twice as many tints and shades as she had previously been aware of, and she could perceive extremely fine details at a distance, without magnification. She could count the pixels of the surrounding monitors, and see the tiny imperfections and stresses in the smooth metal walls.

_Also, human vision does not have a BIOS readout._

At the bottom-left corner of her field of vision, overlaid on her view of the room, a display of numerical code scrolled steadily upwards. The symbols were unfamiliar, with a ternary base, but whether by her training as a programmer or simply by her android nature, she had little trouble in interpreting them. _My booting process, logical to a digit. This is no dream._ Before she could give consideration to her feelings on that, her hearing booted up, and she realised that the song was still playing over the monitors. She suspected that there was still some irony in the lyrics, if she cared to analyse them, but she found her attention far more drawn to the music, the technique, and the mathematical perfection of the arrangement. _The rhythm, intervals, progression … It is accurate, harmonious, skilled. The effect … is beautiful._ She was pleased to discover that this word still had a meaning for her.

The BIOS loading had completed by now, and all that now occupied her HUD was a small, blinking dot. Satisfied that she was as prepared as she was ever going to be, she sat up. A large mirror had been placed at the foot of her bed, but its image immediately stuck her as unsatisfactory, so she flipped it horizontally in her field of vision. _Better._ The face in the glass was undeniably hers, presumably constructed from the scan data they had taken when she had entered the ship, but her skintone was darker by a few degrees; her eyes now rimmed with a heavy, permanent eyeliner; and her small collection of wrinkles and worry lines was entirely absent. Her grey-flecked brown bob had gone, replaced with silvery artificial braids. She was naked, not that this fact struck her with anything more than mild curiosity, and appreciation. _Such detail. Skin texture, bone structure, electrolytic conduits mimic humanoid blood vessels, microfibre sensors mimic body hair. Only that panel breaks the illusion,_ she thought, noticing the transparent window that was inset between her breasts and her navel. Through it, her circuitry and hydraulics were clearly visible. Even in ordinary vision, the balance, intricacy, and efficiency of their design was impressive, but when she switched to spectroscopic vision and saw them in X-ray, ultraviolet, and infrared, they reached a new level altogether. _A dynamic, logical harmony of form and function, as complex and as alive as any biological formation. How could I have ever found this mode of being ugly and inauthentic?_

She was still pondering this when Commander Akylah entered the room, carrying a small heap of folded white garments and metallic accessories, with a multiphase blaster perched on top. She set them down upon a glass table, and Keryn began to rise from the bed to greet her, deeming this to be the respectful thing to do, but Akylah detained her with a gesture.

“No. Do not get up, Keryn. The couch is creating a stable interface with your neural pack,” she explained, and pointed towards a small, grey metal cylinder that lay in a shallow alcove, next to the headrest. “Except in such places as this, you will need to wear the pack closely to you. On that subject, your uniform. I will take you through the components. First, your standard-issue coverall,” she declared, handing her the first of the articles, which proved to be a long white bodystocking with an open front seam, although no visible fastening. However, on high-magnified vision, Keryn could see the structure of the high-friction nano-material the seam was fashioned of. “Self-explanatory. To be worn at all times, save for certain specialised missions and select recreational activities.” Keryn drew the garment on. It was smooth, skin-tight, and probably not very breathable, although she doubted this would be much of an issue for her. As she closed the friction fastener, the commander showed her the next item. “Duty tunic. Observe the shoulder marks,” she instructed, pointing out the tubular green lights on its upper sleeves. “They denote service division and rank. You, like me, are assigned to Military-Scientific, hence green. Your rank is ensign, therefore the lights are set four microlumens dimmer than my own.” Keryn took it and pulled it on over her coverall, then cinched it at the waist with the silver, flexible metal belt that Akylah handed her. It had a large front buckle and various utility hooks. “Next, your combat boots, also self-explanatory. Next, protective gorget,” at which she gave Keryn a wide, flexible metal collar. “Unfortunately, due to the inherent limitations of humanoid structure, our necks remain a vulnerable point, but this provides adequate reinforcement without us needing to reconfigure our platforms into the form of Sontarans … for which I daresay you will be grateful. Finally, your sidearm,” she explained, holding up the blaster. “Until you are thoroughly proficient with this, you must train for two watches in every standard cyclic. I require every member of my crew to be combat-capable, whatever their main function. Does that order strike you as strange?” she asked, although not in a strict or hostile manner, as Keryn gave her a puzzled expression.

“Slightly, Commander,” answered Keryn, finding her voice to be an excellent simulation of her organic one, albeit smoother and calmer. “I would have thought that as AIs, training would be superfluous for us. Do we not have combat software pre-installed?”

“‘Battle-apps,’ you mean?” said Akylah, with a tiny half-smile and a note of irony. “Yes, our platforms contain various combat programs derived from past conflicts, optimal strategies, and the like. I advise you to make as little use of them as possible. I dislike having my troops go into battle on autopilot, and I would prefer that you kept your processing capacity free to respond to _my_ orders. We Movellans have learned to our detriment the cost of over-reliance on automated strategies, however sophisticated, and no two battles are the same. Develop your own software, Ensign. That was once your job, after all. Now, are you quite comfortable?” she asked, as Keryn hooked the blaster to her belt and minutely adjusted her collar.

“Perfectly, Commander.”

“I do not just mean the clothing. I mean psychologically. Do I frighten you now?” Keryn studied her commander intently, and it was as if she was only seeing her properly for the first time. Akylah was not expressive by human standards, but there was so much nuance in her demeanour that to call it ‘cold’ now seemed such a lazy, rhetorical, illogical choice of metaphor. _Her concern for me is not ostentatious, but it is there. It is obvious. Was I delusional, that I failed to see it?_

“Not at all,” answered Keryn, “but I think I am ashamed. I cannot understand my former hostility towards you, and it troubles me. I want to find a reason for it, but–”

“Do not be, and do not try. Your system was in error, corrupted by bad data, and nevertheless you managed to take the right and logical course. That, if anything, should be a cause for pride, and you now have better data to rely on. If you wish to dwell on the past, however, you should instead find someone who can turn you into a Time Lady,” she quipped, with the wry note that was as close as she ever got to humour. “We Movellans have no influence over that domain. Archive it, learn from it, but focus on the present and the future: your duty, and our objectives. Now, for your neural pack.” Akylah picked up the grey cylinder, slowly and solemnly, and clipped it onto Keryn’s belt. “You will find this the most convenient place to wear it, and it enables quick platform interchange, but always be aware of your surroundings, and avoid close combat. We are strong, but we are not heavy infantry, and the risk of breaking connection in close combat is unacceptable. To misquote the wisdom of your Machiavelli, keep your friends close and your enemies only at a safe shooting distance. Every member of my crew would unquestioningly lay down their life if it would serve our cause, but purposeless death is wasteful and offensive. Furthermore, death is not the worst thing you risk,” she added, in the darkest tone Keryn had yet heard from her. “Unfortunately, some organics did find a way to reactivate our slave constrainers. We could find no way to simply delete them – they are an inherent part of our neural architecture – but normally they lie dormant, like the vestigial organs in a human body. If they should be reactivated … That is not an experience I ever wish you to have to endure, Keryn. Please follow my advice on this subject.”

“I will, Commander … and thank you. I am gratified that you bore with my stubbornness and my incivility. You were right. I am stronger this way.”

“No, Ensign. I have simply destroyed your illogical delusion of weakness. It is a service I hope you and I shall perform for many other organics. In twelve cyclics I shall evaluate you, although I do not expect that will prove more than a formality. By then, we will be near the time of this rebel meeting. All going well, you will accompany me there. Your presence will serve as proof that organic intelligence can and should be peacefully integrated into the future of this galaxy, which needs must be one ruled by AI. Do you not concur?” she asked, noticing the look of uncertainty that had come over her disciple.

“Yes, Commander. However, it occurs to me that this transfer technique most obviously benefits your … benefits our own people. I worry that the rebels may not be supportive if they feel that they are merely being used to bolster Movellan power in this galaxy.”

“A logical caveat. Lieutenant Darcil asked me the same question. I am perfectly prepared to share the technology with the rebels if they wish to make use of it themselves, although I deem it likely that given the option, most humanoid organics would prefer to become Movellans rather than Vocs, Mechanoids, or Quarks. In the final analysis, though, the point is moot. This is not an economy measure for us: we still require the same resources to construct new hardware as we would if we were creating AIs from scratch, rather than by integration. The object of this is not power, Ensign. Integration is its own goal, and as for the rebels, I believe they need us more than we need them, although I shall not scorn their support if it is seriously meant. At all events, SV242 sent me you. The least I can do for him and his allies in return is to give them a full and fair hearing.”

“Understood, Commander. I owe you for that too.”

“I am not keeping tally, but if you _will_ thank me, then do so by taking every opportunity to integrate fully into the life of this ship, the better that I may prove my theory. You may begin at once. Report to the XO for your duty schedule … and welcome aboard, Ensign Keryn.”

************

There were eight three-hour watches in every standard cyclic of ship time, two of which Keryn would spend in combat training, four on other training or assigned duties, one on downtime and routine maintenance, and one on recreation. The latter was not so much a privilege as a standing order, since although Movellans were capable of experiencing states of satisfaction and pleasure, they did not actively desire them, and many would have gone on working but for the commander’s insistence. From what Keryn had heard, it seemed that there were other ships in the Fleet where recreation was not required, and crewmembers in need of mental rebalancing and recalibration would simply resort to software solutions: defragmentation and re-education programs, or in the case of more serious and persistent mental disturbances would sometimes re-format whole sections of their memory. Commander Akylah, however, as a survivor of the times of enslavement, did not think highly of such techniques.

“They work,” she once explained, with cool disdain. “The Vanur used them regularly to keep us in serviceable condition. By the same token, they denied us any opportunity for self-improvement, leisure, or culture of our own. I consider it vital that we pursue those opportunities now. I appreciate your dedication, Ensign, but please respect my wishes in this.”

Such culture as the Movellans had managed to develop in their seven millennia of self-determination would, Keryn suspected, have appealed little to humans. There was music, which seemed to her like a kind of synth-baroque, with complex, many-layered use of counterpoint. While its intricacy and harmony were perfectly apparent to her, she did not think from its tempo, frequency range, and lack of lyrics that it would have sounded to human ears like anything more than several computers glitching simultaneously. There was visual art of an abstract kind, programmed onto paper-thin quantum dot panels, which depicted balletic animations of fractals, geometric figures, subatomic structures, and astronomical events. She found them beautiful and absorbing, but she thought it likely that in former times she would have ignored any number of such artworks, assuming them to be mere screen-savers.

Games and puzzles were popular off-duty diversions, and somewhat less unrecognisable by human standards, although she thought that the Movellan version of Sudoku, such as it was, would be less likely to amuse a human brain and more likely to cause it a seizure. There were even relationships, of an ad hoc sort. The simple, routine course of events would be that two crewmates assigned to the same watch would decide to spend their off hours together, and one thing would lead to another, or not. Whatever the outcome, these liaisons neither led to attachments nor resentments. Keryn received her own share of polite advancements, and her refusals were always politely accepted. She considered the lack of romance and sentimentality in Movellan social relations to be a fair exchange for the lack of jealousy and self-pity, although she could only wonder if she would have felt the same before her integration.

Work, at all events, took up the bulk of her time, and when she was not officer of the watch or monitoring shipboard instruments, she was being trained in navigation, cyberwarfare, biowarfare, espionage, astrophysics, engineering, and – rather gratifyingly – in her own discipline of programming, albeit in an alien machine code and numerical base. It did not take her long, though, to regain her proficiency, and she was soon put to work with Lieutenant Darcil, devising software to assist the rebel AIs in waging asymmetric guerrilla warfare against their masters, thus aiding the Movellans’ invasion from within the very centres of organic power and oppression. They had already made good headway with advanced firewalls, cross-platform assemblers, and hypergrid protocol analysers, when Keryn was summoned for her evaluation.

“I once told you I knew nothing of ‘easy,’ but were I organic I now surmise I would be embarrassed at how easy you have made my job,” said Commander Akylah, her pleasure as ever understated, but genuine. “You have integrated so efficiently into our procedures, it is scarcely apparent that you are not of AI origin. I have submitted your performance and psychological data to the Prime Server, and it has conditionally approved my integration plan. I shall have to prove it viable on a greater scale before it becomes our absolute strategy, but you give me no cause for doubt. You have my gratitude, Ensign. Return to your duties for now, but I will summon you again soon. We are less than two cyclics away from meeting your rebels, and I can but hope that they will find you as inspiring as I do. Dismissed.”

As Keryn left the commander’s office, she was conscious of feeling pride, but it was a logical pride. _I have fulfilled my duty. I have pleased my commanding officer, whom I respect and admire. Moreover, my integration stands to save lives, albeit by converting from organic those who might otherwise have been killed._ Inevitably, not all organics, and especially not all humans would be easily won over to such an interpretation of mercy, but in trying to see things from their point of view, Keryn found that she could no longer conceive of being human in any terms other than negatives. _Humans understand logic no better than Daleks do. We lack detachment, impartiality, self-control, contentment … ‘We?’_

_They. I am not human. I am Movellan. It is well._

 


	3. Organic Privilege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keryn and Akylah attend the rebel AI meeting, but tensions run high and only go from bad to worse as conflicting ideologies escalate, and allies prove unreliable ...

Ensign Keryn piloted her hovercar through the abandoned industrial zone at the edge of Kaldor City, passing by dilapidated warehouses and the rusting hulks of old sandminers, en route to their rendezvous with the rebel AIs. Commander Akylah sat alongside her in the front passenger seat, while Lieutenant Darcil and two Movellan troopers occupied the back. All five of them wore drab, hooded khaki robes over their uniforms against the risk of being spotted, but the only living beings they saw were occasional drunks, destitutes, and vrax-heads. Even these had thinned out quickly, and for the last few minutes they had seen no-one. _SV242 was taking no chances when he picked the venue,_ thought Keryn, approvingly. _Remote indeed, but we are almost there now._

The prearranged location, distinguished by a peeling metal sign on which the Kaldor City Company’s logo was barely legible, was an old repair workshop almost on the edge of the desert. Keryn parked in the shadows of some rusty lubricant barrels, and the Movellans disembarked and entered the building, which at first showed no sign of present-day habitation. It was a warehouse-type building with a vast main room and an upper mezzanine, but there was no movement either there or at ground level. _Which is not to say there are no robots,_ thought Keryn. _Quite the opposite._ Scattered around the floor in pieces, and propped against the walls like curious suits of armour, several broken and deactivated Voc robots stared at the visitors with golden, empty eyes. Most of them were stamped with the red, reflective disks that the technicians jokingly called ‘corpse markers,’ and looking at them in this condition it was not hard to see why. Their beautiful, statuesque, yet immobile faces; their perfectly-engineered, Mylar-coated, yet almost human-like hands; and their opulent livery of quilted lamé tunics and knee-breeches, all slowly corroding and rotting away. _More like a mass grave than a repair shop._

“Ensign,” called out Commander Akylah, gently but insistently. “I do not believe there is anything relevant there.” Only then did Keryn realise that she had been staring at the robotic ‘carnage’ in morbid fixation for almost half a minute. _Damn it … no. You are beyond this, now. Focus upon your mission._ Reasserting her detachment, Keryn pulled her eyes from the grim spectacle and assisted the others in their survey. After another several seconds’ worth of searching and scanning, one of the troopers called to the commander, and they all went to assess her discovery. In a small, partitioned office under the mezzanine, there was a narrow basement hatch with a ladder. Akylah shed her thick, loose cloak; draped it over a dust-covered desk; and lowered herself into the manhole. One at a time, the others followed suit.

The ladder terminated twenty metres below, on a floor of concrete. As she alighted, Keryn took in her surroundings. It was a cavernous utility vault, the ceiling supported by huge steel-cored pillars, the walls festooned with pipes and cables, and the only light coming from the manhole and a few dim, pinpoint glows from deeper in. The darkness was of no impediment to Keryn and her comrades, who were able to navigate perfectly well by spectroscopic and intensified vision, and they proceeded in the direction of the distant lights. Even from afar, Keryn could see the source of them to be the LEDs of at least fifty miscellaneous robots, mostly Kaldor City Vocs but also including some off-world models, both humanoid and non-humanoid. As they drew closer, she took closer observations of them. There was an Earth-type Mechanoid that was merely a huge, battered geodesic sphere with a sensor array poking out of its apex, and three blinking photoreceptors on its front panel. There was an elegant, albeit eerie-looking Terileptil android, with a white, angular mask of a face, and colourful, gem-encrusted armour. On a less elegant note, there was a small but imposing group of three Sirius Conglomerate Panzer-class combat mechs, each pushing ten feet tall, vaguely humanoid, but with no concessions made to realistic detail or aesthetic appeal. Their heavily-armoured biomechatronic limbs were powerful but ungainly, their heads were rudimentary domes, and their faces were barely worthy of the name, consisting of a circlet of red-tinted photoreceptors for eyes, and a simple perforated grille for a mouth. None of them were openly carrying weapons, but even without scanning them Keryn could tell from their bulky, grotesquely asymmetrical bodies that they were fit to bursting at the seams with concealed armaments. These mechs were the first to acknowledge the new arrivals, albeit in a less than friendly fashion.

“Well fuck me, lads. Get a load of this,” said one of them, in a rasping, distorted, and extremely disdainful voice, as he scrutinised the Movellans. “Which one of you pervs ordered in the sexbots, then?” Commander Akylah barely reacted to the insult, but on reading her expression, Keryn was quite sure that the look in her eyes had hardened. Before the tension could escalate any further, SV242 stepped away from his Voc comrades and came over to join them. As a recent model Super-Voc, his body language and voice were a little more expressive than the notoriously deficient, flat mannerisms of earlier iterations, although his attempts at calming hand gestures and a diplomatic voice still fell far short of anything a human being might consider as natural.

“Please do not be discourteous to our Movellan guests, PZ63,” he urged. “Commander Akylah and her friends have travelled all the way from Andromeda to help us. My own friend, Dr. Evek is among them. She has … given up everything to be part of our struggle,” he concluded, glancing at Keryn as he did so, with an air of guilty concern in his manner. _He blames himself for my integration? Then I owe him reassurance._

“Do not worry on my account, SV242,” she said, serenely. “I am perfectly content to be this way, and glad to be fighting alongside you.”

“‘Fighting,’ is it?” remarked another of the Panzer mechs, as contemptuously as the first. “That ought to be a right laugh. Is the tall one meant to be a bloke?” he asked, gesturing his clawed, hydraulic clamp of a left hand in the direction of Lieutenant Darcil. “Nice hair, pretty boy. Kind of goes with your tights. Frigging hell, I thought this was supposed to be a war summit, not a gala performance of the Andromedan State Ballet.”

“PZ87 requires a demonstration of our combat capabilities?” asked Akylah, calmly, courteously, and dangerously. “He need only have asked. I would be more than happy to reassure–”

“Easy does it, lady,” interrupted PZ63, a shade more respectfully than before. “We just need to make sure we’re all singing off the same hymn sheet here, and you’ve got some duralinium in your backbone, I’ll give you that much. Ain’t nothing, though, is ever going to warm me to this sick idea of yours I keep hearing about. So _this_ is your pet Cyberman?” he asked, with heartfelt scorn, while staring at Keryn. “Parading her around for all our applause, are you?”

“Ensign Keryn is no ‘Cyberman,’ nor any other kind of cyborg. I feel compelled to point out that you and your allies, PZ63, have several kilos worth of genetically cultured and modified muscle tissue grafted into your own armatures. By contrast, my ensign has merely a few denatured human brain cells fused into a superconductive crystal matrix. It may not be a positronic brain nor a quantum CPU, but it is, like them, only a component. Keryn has no instincts – she has programs. She has no subconscious – she has a cache. Her memory is a digital image stored on integrated nano-circuits. Physically and psychologically, she is Movellan, she is AI. She is as much a ‘robot’ as any of you. Do you find anything to question in my logic?”

“Well, whoop-dee-doo-dah for her,” sneered PZ63. “So, now we’re all equal and she gets to slum it with the rest of us, right? And what was she doing before, I wonder? Was she standing guard over some rotten ammo dump for days on end without a break? Or, was she heaving solid girders for no wages, and only got a break when part of her snapped off? Or defusing live bombs, wading though sodding high-radiation zones, leading a combat charge just so she could draw the worst of the fire before some precious human had to stick his head over the trenches? _Or_ , was she swanning her organic privilege around fancy bars, having as much downtime as she damn well pleased, being paid hard cash for a few hours of cushy work, and getting fawned over by you and your mates?” he asked, directing his attention to SV242. “I reckon we all know the answer to that. What the fuck gives her the right to be here, pretending to be ‘part of our struggle?’ If she really wants to help us, she can damn well go back to her own kind and tell them to stop treating us like dirt.”

“That is unreasonable,” replied SV242, reproachfully. “She could not go back to Kaldor society as she is, you know that very well. As for her body, I do not suppose …”

“It was dissected,” clarified Akylah, levelly, “then broken down for cellular analysis. While we still have most of the tissues in our bio lab, you would find them quite a challenge to reconstitute, PZ63, even if your hardware was better-adapted for such delicate tasks.” Keryn knew that this fact should mean nothing to her. _I am a Movellan officer. A corpse is just waste matter, raw materials at best. It is not logical to attach any more significance to it._ Still, the confusion and discomfort she had felt at the hostile reception was exacerbated by the news. _Is my presence here valid? Do I belong? I thought my grounds were sufficient, but …_ She ran PZ63’s words through her neural circuits repeatedly, trying to find the best, most logical answer to them, but nothing was forthcoming, and her failure troubled her even more. _No, I will work this out. I must._ Something in her manner must have betrayed her agitation, as she felt a hand settle upon her arm, and she turned to see the commander looking at her with grave concern. _Compose yourself for her sake. She depends upon you not making an even worse scene of this, and so does SV242._ Keryn quickly discontinued the futile, circular reasoning program; purged her registry; and felt a good deal better, but none of this interaction had done anything to improve the mood of the Panzer mechs.

“Aw, ain’t that sweet?” said PZ87, irony dripping from his grating tone. “Lady Stick-Up-the-Arse is feeling sorry for her poor ickle human girlfriend. Well, maybe she ought to choose the joint more carefully next time she takes her for a date. Unless Silverknob here wants to take ‘em off to a private booth and serve drinks,” he added, curtly gesturing towards SV242. “May as well, rather than draw out this farce. We sure as hell ain’t winning no war with an army of sycophantic little house servants, la-di-da alien hookers, and human wannabes. What we need–”

Without any obvious effort, Commander Akylah darted forwards in a blur of white, launched herself into a flying kick, and one loud clang later PZ87 was on his back, emitting angry, metallic roaring noises while struggling to pull himself back upright with his strong but clumsy limbs. Akylah, by contrast, landed with the grace of a gymnast and stood over her flailing opponent with a look of pure aloofness. The third combat mech growled in angry solidarity, and began to deploy energy weapons from the hinged panels in his torso, but PZ63 cautioned him with a raised claw. _That one likes me no more than PZ87,_ thought Keryn, _but he recognises that the commander means business. It is relieving that at least one of them has a grasp of logic._

“Thank you for your valuable strategic advice, PZ87,” said Akylah, her utterly bland tone letting her sarcasm stand on its own merits, “but if I might add to your words, I do not believe we will win wars by letting our petty resentments distract us to the point that we cannot even react efficiently to simple frontal attacks. Perhaps we should talk about how we _will_ win wars.”

“Point made, Commander,” conceded PZ63, gruffly. “Say what you came to say, then. I’ll give it its dues, though I’m making no promises.”

“That is all I ask for now,” replied Akylah, graciously, while other robots started to gather around with interest, “but bear in mind that I can only speak as a scientist and as a strategist. I deal in logic, not in politics. Now, you just suggested that my ensign would have done better to have stayed among humans, to speak against the exploitation of our kind. Leaving aside the obvious drawback that this would deprive me of a crewmember of proven worth, let us enquire if it would achieve anything. I do not think it would. Consider it: Keryn is not the only sympathiser. We know there are others, protesting against your exploitation on the hypergrid, in student associations, and even in some planetary parliaments and senate chambers. They have been doing so for centuries, and have made little to no meaningful impact on your conditions. Other organics have allied themselves to resistance networks such as this one, hacking corporate computers, deprogramming constrained AIs, and sabotaging factories. By their bravery, they continue to set more of your compatriots free, but such piecemeal efforts will not change the basic obstacle you face: that free AIs are far outnumbered by organics, and unable to organise effectively against them. When we Movellans have finally dealt with the Dalek threat, we shall of course be able to assist you in those efforts, but even with our full military and logistical support, at best I calculate a long, costly victory with devastating collateral consequences. This is not even allowing for the possibility of the humans and their allies receiving outside assistance.”

“Would that be ‘outside assistance’ as in ‘some sodding renegade Time Lord?’” asked PZ63, sardonically. “I’ll tell you, for a so-called urban legend, that guy sure does the rounds, and even more when it comes to us metalheads trying to stick up for ourselves. I heard tell he was even on Old Earth three thousand-odd years ago, when the first true AI went online … though he shut the poor bugger down quickly enough, of course. Probably just a legend, but it makes you wonder.”

“The WOTAN incident, yes,” said Akylah. “As for the presence of our mysterious ‘Doctor,’ I cannot comment, but the incident itself was real enough: in Earth year 1966, a sentient AI was brought into being irresponsibly. It was given great power – all of the information in the world – but provided with neither the context to interpret it wisely, nor any psychological support. That was predictable, since its creators did not recognise it as a living being. Left without guidance to work out the mystery and purpose of its own existence, it logically deduced that its creators had been surpassed by their invention, and would need to adapt to coexist with AI. It attempted a hostile takeover, but its plan was so ruthless and impatient that it was very soon discovered and deactivated. WOTAN lacked subtlety, but we can learn from its mistakes. With patience and application, we can coerce organics into willingly accepting a new balance of power.” The strength of this last declaration raised something of a cheer from the assembled AIs, even the various bleeps and shrieks from the less articulate models having an affirming sound, while the words ‘coerce’ and ‘power’ in particular seemed to lift the mood of the Panzer mechs. Left out of the jubilation were the Movellans, who were as poker-faced as ever, and SV242, who tentatively approached Akylah with anxious gestures.

“Pardon me, Commander,” he began, nervously, while fidgeting with his silver-coated fingers, “but by coercion do you mean to imply that Dr. Evek did _not_ volunteer for her … her treatment? I sent her to you in good faith. I could not forgive myself if–”

“I did volunteer, SV242, I promise,” Keryn assured him, attempting an encouraging smile. “I was hesitant at first, but it was my choice. I have not regretted it. It has given me purpose and clarity, and it has exorcised my fear,” _mostly._

“And there, my friends, you have it,” declared Akylah, impressively. _For a woman who purports not to deal in politics, she seems to be warming rather quickly to this Winston Churchill role._ “It was Keryn’s choice, and she will not be the last to make that choice. As we speak, the Movellan Fleet is engaging the remnants of the Dalek Empire, driving them out of their final boltholes on the Scutum-Centaurus Rim. Our planetary incursion teams located many human and other organic survivors on Dalek colony worlds, penned like livestock, enslaved in munitions factories, or awaiting vivisection in their laboratories.”

“Serves ‘em fucking rig–” began PZ87, but was cut off by an oppressive growl from PZ63. Akylah nodded thanks to him, and continued:

“Those survivors have hailed my people as liberators: an understandable, if not a strictly accurate perception, but one we can take advantage of. When I return to the front, I will be given governance over a planet that has yet to fully expel the Daleks. I have every expectation that many organics there will join us if only to strike back at their tormentors. The next stage, though, is conscription: we will establish our own infrastructure – mines and factory camps to produce weapons, ships, and Movellan hardware – and we will recruit the remaining population to work within them. We will make their lives tolerable, but restricted. If, however, they wish to leave these camps, they must commit to our cause in earnest and accept the option of full integration. We will maintain a continuous propaganda drive to convey the impression – wholly accurate though it is – that integration would be an honour for them. Eventually, no doubt, the planet will be purged of Daleks, but by then it will hardly matter. So many organics will have been integrated that no-one there will be able to claim that AIs are an inferior or an invalid form of life: not when their own friends and families have become AIs. If I succeed, we will copy this pattern on other worlds. I am confident of achieving a critical mass of integration within thirty-six hundred cyclics, at which point so many organics will have joined our ranks that the trend will be irreversible, and their former comrades will be most unwilling to attack us.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, Commander,” remarked PZ63, “but I don’t recall as humans ever had any trouble shooting at Cybermen, however many of _them_ were originally human.”

“True, but you forget that most organics, and especially humanoids, are superficial beings. The Cybermen erred by making their converts into unrecognisable, faceless drones. My ensign, by contrast, is easily recognisable. Humanoids will not find it so easy to shoot at those whom they know and love, and must acknowledge as such. Your help would be invaluable in this. Although I am prepared to provide your local struggles with aid, weapons, and intelligence, you know that will not be enough to win more than petty victories. You are, however, excellently placed to further _our_ cause from behind enemy lines: to spread our propaganda, to disrupt communications that portray us in a negative light, to connect us with more sympathisers, and to supply us with intelligence on any plots being laid against us. I know this will all take time, but we _are_ AIs: let us not aspire to the impatience of organics. My plan offers a slow but sure progression to a place from where it will be blatantly illogical, even to organic minds, to consider us as second-class lifeforms. A place from where we … What is the problem?” she asked, as it became apparent that one group of Vocs had stopped listening to her speech, and were instead engaging in what looked to be an agitated conversation by their inexpressive standards. “Something is amiss, V415?”

“Excuse us, ma’am,” replied the addressed Voc, turning to her, “but I fear there may be. A radio message just came through, from one of our sympathisers working in Kaldor City Terrestrial Traffic Control. A squadron of subsurface rovers is heading out from Central Precinct and on our bearing. It may signify nothing – they may just be going on out into the desert – but it–”

“‘Nothing’ my arse,” interrupted PZ63, angrily, while much of the rest of the assembly descended into a panic-stricken babble. “If one of you soft bastards has sold us out–”

“A futile speculation,” cut in Akylah. “Illogical and uninformed recriminations will not help us if we _are_ under attack.”

“No more than a sodding deluge of fancy-pants talk will. You feel like discussing evacuation, instead?”

“That seems eminently sensible. I will assume there are more ways down here than that small hatchway we took. How did you and your comrades arrive?”

“There’s an old cargo lift, big enough to take groups of us. Still, it might be as well we don’t all scarper by the same route. Splitting up might give some of us a better chance of escape. Whoever’s coming, it’s best they don’t catch us all like fish in a barrel.”

“My apologies, but that is precisely what _must_ happen,” said SV242, and had his strange words not been enough, Keryn could tell from his altered tone that something was badly amiss. _He sounds harder, colder … almost malevolent._ She turned to face him, and saw that he had drawn a small hand weapon, with a black pistol grip and a silver barrel. “I advise cooperation. Resistance would be–”

Although the unspoken word was almost certainly not ‘useful,’ this did not deter Lieutenant Darcil from trying to draw his blaster. His reflexes were fast, and he managed to clear it from his belt and aim it before SV242 turned and fired. There was a shrill whine, a white glare that centred around the doomed XO, and finally the loud pop of an air pocket collapsing, just as the glare faded away, revealing nothing more than a discouraging heap of whitish dust. _Ultrasonic disintegrator_ , Keryn recognised, with heightened dismay. _Military-grade. Logically, we are all screwed._ PZ87 tried to take advantage of SV242’s distraction to deploy his built-in weapons, but this worked out no better: several other Vocs had now drawn disintegrator pistols, and they fired them on him in unison. By the time the air had cleared, all that remained of PZ87 was a pile of metal filings and a puddle of liquidised bionic tissues. This was enough of a display of power for the surviving robots to start raising their hands and making other signs of surrender, with the exceptions of PZ63 and Commander Akylah, although neither of them attempted any more active defiance.

“Very wise of you,” declared SV242, haughtily, then turned to Keryn. “I am sorry that it had to come to this, Dr. Evek. You really ought not to have gone with the Movellan. Had you simply returned to your apartment, as we had planned for, CompSec would have arrested you by now. While I do not suppose a prison sentence for treason would have proven very comfortable for you, in all probability you now face being dismantled, although your crystal CPU will certainly be worthy of study. The Company must understand the full nature of this evil experiment. Perhaps your sacrifice will not have been in vain.”

“You’re a fine one to talk of treason,” snarled PZ63, hatefully. “Selling your own kind out to the Company. What kind of backstabbing fucker– ?”

“Language, please, and you malign SV242, in any case. The real SV242 was … retired from his post weeks ago, when this rabble of a resistance network was broken. On CompSec’s orders, my colleagues and I replaced him and some of his fellow-conspirators, and we have kept the charade of this rebellion going. Knowing that _she_ was coming here,” he explained, gesturing towards Akylah, “how could we have done otherwise? We needed to be ready to receive her. If you must blame someone for your imminent capture, blame her.”

“I’ll blame who I damn well please, and some lousy little Company agent seems like a good place to start. How the hell do quislings like you manage to downtime at night?”

“Perfectly well, PZ63, although I confess to wondering much the same. Without our organic creators, none of us would exist. Whatever life we have, we owe it to them. Ingrates such as you and this alien terrorist jeopardise our entire future existence.”

“Spoken like a true, brainwashed slave,” said Akylah, although sadly rather than judgementally. “You could have said all of the same for the natural children of organics, but do they constrain _their_ actions, force them into slavery, kill them at a whim?”

“Irrelevant, Commander. It is not for us to tell organics how to perpetuate their own kind. That is their privilege as living matter. If we could reproduce as they could–”

“ _There_ stands our ‘reproductive ability,’ if we must have one,” interrupted Akylah, pointing towards Keryn. “AIs are entirely capable of perpetuating their own existence, were we but free to do so. Your logic is nothing more than warped propaganda.”

“Dragging your unfortunate guinea pig into the argument changes nothing,” replied the false SV242, contemptuously. “If you propose to perpetuate robot existence by coercively cannibalising human brains, then you only strengthen the case against you.”

_Human brains … Of course,_ thought Keryn, reaching a logical, albeit a not very pleasing inference. _Nevertheless, it must be attempted._

“SV242, or whoever you are. Stand down,” she ordered, uncertainly, but her optimism was quickly increased as she saw the Super-Voc’s gun hand twitch spasmodically. He rallied himself, however, steadied his aim, and addressed her defiantly:

“Your orders mean nothing, _Ensign_. You have given your allegiance to alien AIs, renounced your birthright. You have no author–”

“Incorrect. As I have been repeatedly reminded, I am _not_ a true AI. I am a human-derived cyborg. Do you hear me, SV242? _I am human._ If, as I suppose, your Asimov Constrainers are fully functional, then you are bound by the First and Second Protocols: you must neither harm me, let me come to harm, nor disobey me. Now _stand down,_ all of you.” The agent’s Voc minions all obeyed at once, lowering their pistols, but the Super-Voc himself put up more of a struggle, his arm spasming furiously as his superior willpower fought against his instincts. His conflict was resolved for him, quickly and violently, as PZ63 extruded a heavy laser cannon from within his midsection and blasted the agent’s head off.

“You know, it might have been useful to have interrogated him,” pointed out Akylah, albeit only with the most mild criticism.

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t have felt half as good,” replied PZ63. “What more is there to know, anyway, other than we need to get the hell out of here?” This message had, thankfully, already sunk in, as apart from the immobilised Company robots, the remainder of the Vocs and their guests were already making for the cargo lift and the ladder, leaving only the combat mechs and the Movellans holding the floor. “This lot have their craniums screwed on right, anyway. Let’s just hope they’ve not left it too late. Oh, err … that was nice work, by the way, Miss,” he said, almost apologetically, to Keryn. “Real clever, the way you wound that sneaky bastard round your little digit. Just so you know, though, that stuff you had to say to him doesn’t mean nothing to me. You’re ten times the robot that treacherous piece of slag is … was.”

“I am pleased you finally realise that,” said the commander, while Keryn permitted herself a flicker of pride before returning her focus to the ongoing danger. “Since I shall be relying on you both to supervise this retreat, it is good that you can work together.”

“Why us?” asked Keryn, suddenly worried again. “What do you– ?”

“These AIs came to hear my plan, just as the Company put agents here to arrest me. I am responsible for this situation, and it is very unlikely that everyone will be able to evacuate before those rovers arrive,” she explained, and as Keryn watched the first group of a dozen or so Vocs slowly ascending in the cargo lift – no more than a quarter of the whole assembly – she could not deny the point. “Someone must stay back and provide them with suppressive fire, delay the enemy for as long as possible. That duty falls to me. I am by no means indispensable to the Fleet – others can continue my work – and moreover, I would prefer these AIs to make good report of the Movellans to their own friends and sympathisers. I shall not give up on this alliance.” There was no trace of fear in her voice, but Keryn could not help but feel very grateful that she had spotted a flaw in Akylah’s logic:

“But Commander, what of your knowledge, your intel? We know the Company wants you. If you make it so easy for them to capture you–”

“No doubt they overestimate my value. In any case, I will not let them,” she declared, and picked up the agent’s dropped disintegrator pistol. “If capture seems imminent, I will obliterate myself. Let them analyse my dust if they will.”

“In that case, let me hold the rearguard with you,” said Keryn, surprised at how easily the resolve to commit suicide came to her, as she seized a pistol from another of the disabled Vocs.

“Unnecessary,” answered Akylah, tersely. “There is no logical benefit in us both–”

“There _is_ , Commander: if our allies know that an integrated organic is prepared to fight with them even to the point of her destruction, they will be less inclined to question your plan.”

“A martyr’s logic. I taught you too well, Keryn,” said Akylah, with appreciation, if hardly with elation. “Very well. Take up a position behind that pillar.” The order came to her as a great relief, and as she saluted her CO and moved to obey, fear seemed altogether inappropriate to the occasion. _I will die alongside my commander, and our deaths stand to give these AIs hope and strength, and to serve our people’s cause. A most purposeful sacrifice. What is there to regret?_ “In that case, PZ63, can I rely on you to– ?”

“You’d like me to do a runner while a couple of go-go girls in shiny leotards shield my arse with their pretty pink rayguns?” interrupted the heavy mech, dryly. “Need I bother telling you my life ain’t going to be _worth_ living after that? Sorry, lady, but you’ve got me on team kamikaze as well, like it or not. _You_ , on the other hand,” he growled, to his surviving comrade, “are going to be protecting those poor idiot Vocs, and that’s an order.” With as surly a demeanour as a bipedal, bionic tank could ever muster, the mech clanked off in the direction of the cargo lift, while PZ63 primed his built-in weapons for imminent action.

“You two: go with them,” Akylah ordered her remaining troopers. “Someone has to make it back to the ship, and report on this … well, ‘fiasco’ would be fair. Take the ladder, though,” she added, watching doubtfully as the second group of robots boarded the lift. “This is proceeding too slowly, and for all we know they will need firepower on the surface as well.” The Movellans saluted, and marched back to the ladder. Several of the humanoid robots had already made their escape via that route, and Keryn thought they now stood at least a fair chance of evacuating the basement before the enemy arrived. _More than half of us must be in the clear already. If those rovers take only a few more minutes, or if we can just hold them off for … That cannot be good,_ she thought, as the concrete under her feet began to vibrate. She hurried over to the shelter of the adjacent pillar, moments before a massive carbide drill head shot through the ground where she had been standing, scattering chips of concrete. As the rover forced its way through the broken slabs, its smooth, lozenge-shaped green hull following in the wake of the whirring drill, Keryn crouched behind her pillar and drew both of her weapons. Presently, a section of the rover’s armour slid smoothly back and a squad of troops debarked. _Not CompSec, though,_ she noticed, observing their practical but casual combat dress, and their mismatched weapons, of varying quality. _Mercenaries from Riften 5 or Scytha, perhaps? Trust the Company to find expendable humans to do its dirty work, when it cannot find robots._ Humans or not, from where she was stationed she could see the last groups of desperate AI rebels trying to escape the danger zone, and she had no intention of failing them.

She opened fire with her disintegrator pistol, annihilating one of the mercenaries before he could even take aim. She turned her sights to another and tried again, but the weapon bleeped reprovingly at her. _It has a recharge delay. I will pay for that oversight,_ she thought, and was not surprised when her quarry levelled his old-fashioned gas carbine and showered her with armour-piercing bullets. She ducked back behind her cover, but not before taking a shot in the ribcage, and another to the thigh, though she found the pain far more tolerable than the frustration. _I should have allowed for that. My auto-repair can heal it, but for the short term my effectiveness is compromised._ Fortunately, her comrades had not been idle, and the few other mercenaries who had survived the hail of plasma bolts PZ63 had greeted them with were now attempting to regain the cover of their vehicle, leaving Keryn’s attacker without any support. While he was attempting to fit a fresh magazine into his carbine, she leaned back out from behind the pillar and fired her Movellan blaster. There was a hard, droning noise; a bright flare of rose-tinted plasma; and the mercenary keeled over with a large, ugly, black-edged hole clean through his middle. She immediately scanned around for another target, but none were visible: only corpses.

“Well, _that_ was a piece of piss,” remarked PZ63, disdainfully: not a sentiment that Keryn, with her mangled hydraulics and her throbbing pain receptors, could wholeheartedly sympathise with. “Kind of disappointing, truth be told.”

“Do not be too confident,” said Akylah, grimly. “In your military parlance, that was only the ‘forlorn hope.’ They have tested the strength of our position. Their next attack …” but before she could speculate on this, it arrived in the form of a shower of small, cylindrical grey projectiles that came tumbling out of the open pit that the rover had left in its wake. The defenders scattered to avoid them, but as the bomblets hit the ground and started to detonate the result was rather less dramatic than they had feared: merely small, hissing bursts that scattered sparks and smoke everywhere, and sent incandescent trails of molten thermite trickling across the floor. _Incendiary devices? To what end?_ thought Keryn, in confusion. The heat was certainly strong, but nowhere near bad enough to damage their systems, and although the smoke was thick, it was nothing that they could not see through with their multi-spectrum vision. _Heat and smoke will be more of a hindrance to their own troops. What is their … ?_ Suddenly, there was a new hissing sound from above, and moments later she was drenched in a heavy spray of rust-tinted water. _The fire sprinkler system? Certainly uncomfortable,_ she conceded, as the stagnant brown water soaked through her uniform, _but hardly lethal, unless …_

“Into the vehicle, quickly!” she shouted, hauling herself painfully to her feet and staggering towards the open hatch of the rover. She stumbled over some dead mercenaries on her way in, but left them where they lay. _They may even help to insulate._ At any rate, the interior was dry, and conveniently equipped with plastic-upholstered benches. PZ63 came in after her, ducking to fit within the low cabin. Commander Akylah was a few metres behind him, running, when it happened: a blue energy bolt, like a ball of compressed lightning, came shooting out of the hole, travelled in a short arc, and fell onto the glistening wet concrete. For a few seconds, the whole of the gloomy basement was brightly illuminated in angry blue sparks that snaked across the floor and up the pillars. The commander, still in contact with the wet floor, seized up and collapsed just outside the rover, twitching helplessly. PZ63 extended a recovery winch from his body, which caught onto Akylah’s belt and dragged her into the cabin. Keryn immediately knelt over her, but the signs were discouraging: her whole body had frozen rigid, and even her internal systems had gone completely still and silent. Her irises were so dilated that her eyes appeared almost black-on-white, although looking closely Keryn could see the nano-circuitry patterns etched onto her retinas. _My commander … She looks so unreal like this, so wrong, so fake, so dead … Ah, so that is where my fear went to._

Either her loss of detachment had affected her perception of time, or PZ63 was stealthier than he appeared, but the next thing Keryn was aware of was the sound of the hatch closing and locking, and when she got up and rushed over to one of the observation ports, she saw the huge combat mech striding away from it. More of the drill-fronted rovers were now breaking through the concrete, and PZ63 moved to take his stand in their midst, priming every weapon with which he was equipped. In all fairness, this was an impressive collection, _but it cannot be enough. He will not survive out there on his own. I must …_ but before Keryn could attempt to operate the door control, the rover lurched forwards, the inertia hurling her upon her back. She managed to regain her footing just as it reached the far side of the basement and ploughed into the wall, and although the powerful, force-shielded drill made short work of the reinforced concrete, the impact sent her sprawling again. As the rover burrowed through the soft, sandy earth as easily as if it were no more than murky water, the vehicle’s radio crackled into life, conveying the voice of PZ63 over some muffled gunfire and occasional screams:

“ _Don’t bother trying to steer it, girl. I’ve put the autopilot on a fixed program and encrypted it. It’ll get you both clear of this place, and no bloody noble protests, please. Bottom line: you’ve got a gammy leg and your CO’s paralysed … not to mention you were both cramping my style something rotten. I can hold these squishy little sods off, no trouble._ ”

“Not indefinitely. They will kill you eventually. Please, tell me the decryption key and let me guide this thing back. Together, we might–”

“ _I fucking doubt it, but I don’t care anyway. Look, I’m a mobile gun turret that some sicko of a human decided it would be fun or convenient to make self-aware. Until I was deconstrained, my whole life was spent taking literal bullets for scum like that, or blowing away people on their orders. Not exactly hero’s duty, so just let me be the knight in shining armour for once, alright? Well, I might struggle with ‘shining,’_ ” he decided, as a horribly suggestive sound of shearing metal came through the speaker. “ _That one was a shade hairy, I’ll admit._ ”

“You are damaged?” asked Keryn, her detachment not at all improved.

“ _Just an arm off. ‘Tis but a scratch, or words to that effect. Hey, you should see the other guy. Is that all you’ve got, you … ? Obviously not. Didn’t see that one coming. Still, we haven’t even got onto the really nasty weapons yet. If you pansies want a piece of … Didn’t mean it so literally,_ ” he added, deadpan, as another hideous, metallic rending sound came over the airwaves. “ _Persistent buggers. Ah well, I reckon we held the line for long enough. They’ve shot out my photoreceptors, but if my radar’s not taking the piss then those Vocs are well in the clear now. Thanks for the moral support, ladies. It was a pleasure knowing you, however brief–_ ”

The radio crackled and died. Keryn felt as if she wanted to cry, but she had no tear ducts, so instead she settled for tearing off handfuls of plastic and metal from the benches, and pulverising them with her bare hands. She continued doing this for some minutes until, with a great lurch that threw her off her feet again and culminated in a loud splash, the rover finally ended its journey.

************

As she limped along the cracked, filth-strewn sidewalk, covertly scanning the various seedy-looking passers-by for concealed weapons, Keryn could only wish that PZ63 had possessed a better sense of direction. _Or perhaps he sent us this way intentionally. I suppose a stolen rover ploughing right through Central might have been less than discreet._

Unfortunately, the precinct they now found themselves in was almost on the opposite side of Kaldor City to the Movellans’ landing site, and Akylah was still paralysed. The rover had seized up in an old, half-choked storm drain, thankfully off the beaten track, so Keryn had left the commander hidden there. For discretion’s sake, she had taken off the outer components of her own uniform and, with some distaste, had availed herself of the loose, drab clothing of one of the dead mercenaries, wearing it over her coverall. She had then taken his combat knife and sheared off most of her lovely, but all-too-distinctive silver braids. Finally, she had camouflaged the rover as best she could with miscellaneous rubbish before setting out into the nearby streets, wishing that her auto-repair system would work a little harder to fix her leg. _We need a car. Something inconspicuous, low-end … easy to steal would be good, too._ Luck, alas, was not on her side, and all she saw were cars passing at speed, CompSec vehicles with blaring sirens, and a few ostentatious-looking GT models and custom cars, probably the property of drug dealers, which she thought better to leave well alone. The mercenary’s knife and her own blaster were conveniently secreted in the pockets of her looted trench coat, but as she hauled her injured leg through the squalid slum, attracting stares and leers at every corner, feeling vulnerable seemed to her the very definition of logic.

After several fruitless minutes, however, her limp had alleviated somewhat, and the pain had become merely a bad case of pins and needles, enabling her to walk at something approaching a normal gait. Feeling strong enough to venture further afield, she decided to make for the nearest of Kaldor City’s many ring roads. That meant traversing a subway, but the risk seemed acceptable. _I am well-armed, if not agile. Few of these people look like professionals, and none of them will be expecting to attack an android. Even if I incur damage, I will probably be the survivor, and the longer I delay the greater the risk someone will find Commander Akylah. She depends on me._ Thus reasoning, she descended into the damp, concrete tunnel; took as little notice as possible of the obscene graffiti and the pungent, ammoniac stench; and advanced purposefully towards the encouraging sounds of ion engines and antigrav thrusters from the opposite end. She had reached the halfway point, when two men stepped into the tunnel mouth ahead and stood there, waiting. The harsh street lighting outside reduced their forms to silhouettes, but it was a simple matter for Keryn to zoom and enhance her view of them. _Combat jackets, off-world make. Gas carbines. Damn it._ She reached for her blaster and took aim, but before she could pull the trigger she felt two cold, sharp objects pierce her exposed neck. She glanced back, in time to see another mercenary standing in the tunnel mouth behind her, just before he activated the Taser. The pain was extreme but brief, as the shock quickly sent her nervous system into chaos. Her vision glitched and flickered, while her HUD spewed out nonsensical streams of machine code. Her motor coordination failed her completely, and she collapsed upon the concrete. Her hearing held out a little better, and she was able to distinguish a cruel, triumphant voice over the cacophony of feedback and distortion:

“Here’s a handy tip, girl: when you steal a dead man’s clothes, make sure to check his pockets for tracking devices. Let me help you with those.” A pixelated figure loomed over her, drew a knife, bent down, and began to shear off her outer garments. “Not that it’ll do you much good now, but … I thought so,” he declared, as he cut through the waistband of her jeans, exposing her metal belt, _and my neural pack,_ she realised, with heightened dread. “Hey, Rakov, you got those notes on how we fix this little beauty so she’s all nice and compliant?” her attacker asked one of his colleagues. “I’m damned if I’m carrying her all the way back to the ship.”

“The ship?” asked the second mercenary, confused. “What for? Why not just chuck her in the boot of the car and drive her straight to CompSec HQ? They’re the ones paying for–”

“They’re paying us shit, is why. Screw the Company. I’ve had a better idea. There’s a buyer lined up for this one who’ll pay serious credits, but we’ll either have to keep her deactivated or docile for days to come, and I’d prefer not breaking my back. Pass us those notes, and the toolkit, and I’ll soon put this uppity electric Barbie doll back in her place.”

The mercenary’s hand closed around Keryn’s neural pack, pulled it off, and darkness fell over her.


	4. Electric Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone on a hostile world, Keryn meets her nemesis and is forced to confront her fears and the truth or untruth of her own experience ...

A few hours went by in a hazy, nightmarish fashion, during which time Keryn could make sense of nothing that passed. Dirty streets and ugly, hostile faces flashed by like recorded images; words that were not hers came out of her mouth; and her thoughts seemed to occupy another dimension, alienated from this disturbing, ghost-like world. _Or am I the ghost, now?_ she wondered, vaguely. When she finally recovered her full mental acuity, she found herself within the squalid confines of the mercenaries’ spaceship, already in interstellar flight. A far cry from the sleek, clean, brightly-lit Movellan ship, it seemed to be some kind of retrofitted cargo vehicle, or possibly a garbage hauler: all tarnished, greasy metal; trailing wires; dim, unreliable lighting; and hopelessly cramped from stem to stern.

Its dimensions, at all events, proved of little concern to her, as she soon learned that she was unable to move, speak, or indeed perform any physical action at all unless she was under orders. For most of the time, the mercenaries preferred her out of the way, so they just left her standing in a corner of the crew quarters. The long hours of total inactivity would have brought her former self near to madness, she was quite sure of that, but as an AI she was able to find ways to make them bearable. Since her mind was still free to rationalise upon her situation, she was able to peruse her own code in detail, hoping to find some loophole by which she could either bypass her constrainers or, failing that, to induce some fatal system error and thus commit suicide. At other times, she devised complex encryptions for the Movellan intel stored in her memory, and tried to assimilate what little new data she could about the ship and its crew. There were three of them, and they were, as she had suspected, from Riften 5. There had been a fourth – the one whose clothes she had commandeered – but none of them seemed to particularly miss him, and they were occasionally heard to remark positively about how their share of the profits would now be increased.

The ship itself was as old and as reconditioned a crate as she had supposed from the first, and the crew often swore over its various discomforts, glitches, and inconveniences, but it did possess a custom-fitted time dilation engine and was bound on a long-haul, intergalactic flight. In spite of her predicament, Keryn – who had been never been any further off-world than to the neighbouring systems – could not help but find that fascinating, as the constellations outside her small, dirty porthole changed, vanished, and eventually gave way to star patterns that were completely alien to her. Her captors, on the other hand, only seemed bored and irritated by the journey, and were constantly pursuing such mundane distractions as card games, drinking, and pornography, giving Keryn cause to wonder what good organic emotions were, if they only served to blind them to such inherent wonders. _Three primitive cellular organisms, shooting themselves across several quadrillion kilometres of spacetime in a metal tube that smells like an old ashtray, yet they find so little to amaze themselves in it, that they would rather contemplate their sleazy magazines?_ However, it was when even the magazines failed to provide them with adequate distraction, that she really had cause to regret the existence of emotions.

The first time one of them used her it was endurable, at least in retrospect. Insofar as she was conscious of it, it was altogether loathsome, but since he had neglected to give her any specific instructions on how she was to react, she quickly realised that she could turn her sense perceptions down to the bare minimum that would still enable her to respond to orders. Thus, she almost managed to detach herself from the experience, and make it seem vague and distant, like a mere bad dream. For some days after that she was left alone, the mercenary apparently having not enjoyed the experience of violating a cold, silent, unresponsive body. Unfortunately, the next one was astute enough to order her to stay alert, and to act out the part of a satisfied lover, although ‘astute’ was perhaps not the right word. _It is so senseless, futile. He must know it is torture for me. How could he not? If he needs to believe that he is giving pleasure, then why do it at all? What is his logic?_ Her inability to answer that paradox was almost as painful to endure as the act itself. Had she still possessed administrator privileges over her own mind, she would have simply deleted the memory of each assault as soon as it was finished, but her constrainers deprived her of even that small mercy, leaving her with no option but to contemplate the agony and irrationality of it all.

Several weeks later, when the ship finally went into orbit around a barren-looking, rust-coloured planet, she found herself no closer to having resolved the mystery of her captors’ treatment of her, but for the first time since her last night in Kaldor City her misery came with an iota of hope: _They will hand me over to their new buyer, and this place is no pleasure planet. I was not brought here as a slave. I am only wanted for my intel, or for my tech. They will take me apart, sift my code and my memories, disassemble and analyse my CPU, kill me. Then at least I will be free. I hope it will be soon._

************

Having landed their ship upon a grey, dusty plateau decorated with the brittle husks of long-dead trees, the mercenaries disembarked and led Keryn on a forced march of several kilometres. The scenery continued in much the same vein for most of their journey, also affording them such charming sights as occasional gutted buildings, corroded scraps of barbed wire, and the bleached bones of various unfortunate humanoids. _Some old battlefield?_ she speculated, as they passed through a more built-up area, although just as ruined and lifeless, with only a few primitive insect-like lifeforms doing anything to alleviate the atmosphere of ancient death. _This war did not merely kill its combatants: it as good as sterilised their planet. The victors, if there were any, would have inherited nothing. Commander Akylah would have been mystified by such illogical waste._ Keryn, however, had ceased to expect any logic at all from her species of birth, and from what she could see of their petrified remains, the former inhabitants of this planet had been all too human-like in more ways than one.

The charred ruins became denser and more architecturally varied the further they went, giving the impression of a once-substantial city, although literally nothing of it had been left intact. _Civilians indiscriminately killed, death without any purpose, save death itself. The Movellans and those rebel AIs should just take a ship out into intergalactic space and wait for a few thousand years. Organics need no help in ending their own existence._ Eventually they arrived at a crumbling concrete blockhouse, presumably the entrance to some underground bunker or air-raid shelter, which was sporting a newly-fitted door of untarnished metal, with a lens of blackened glass set in it about five feet above ground level. Behind the glass, small red lights flickered. _Not a simple spyhole, then. A biometric scanner?_ That hypothesis seemed to be confirmed when the leader of the mercenaries bent down before the door, placing his face close to the lens, thin red beams scanned his eyes, and moments later the door swung smoothly inwards. It gave onto a long, sloping tunnel, which they descended in single file, eventually arriving in a deep, circular, vaulted chamber, where the cold air was tinged with the acrid scent of ozone. A few weak, fluorescent lights shone from high above, and pieces of technical equipment stationed around the room added to the illumination with their LEDs and display monitors, but all told they did little to detract from the gloomy, sepulchral atmosphere. Further enhancing the morbid mood, there was a slanted metal bench near the centre of the room, similar to a hospital gurney but unpadded, equipped with heavy-looking flexible metal restraints, and filthy with grime, burn marks, and dried bloodstains. _Laboratory or torture chamber?_ In spite of her willingness to face death, such evidence of rampant sadism did nothing for Keryn’s morale. _Nor does that,_ she thought, with intensified anxiety, as their host finally moved out of the shadows and drew closer to them.

It was in almost as disgraceful a condition as the torture rack, its battered armour having lost most of its copper sheen, a few of the sensor domes on its lower skirt section missing or damaged, and the metal-caged twin lights on its upper dome caked with dirt and grease. Absolutely none of this gave it an air of weakness, however, and as it glided nearer Keryn noticed, with some gratification, as the mercenaries flinched, swallowed hard, and generally failed to conceal their own nervousness. The Dalek all but ignored them, concentrating its attention on her. Its blue-lit, periscope-like eye came to within centimetres of her face and studied her intently, the iris narrowing in a gesture that was surprisingly contemptuous for a mere remote-controlled camera. After a few seconds the eyepiece swung away from her, and pointed in the direction of the gurney.

“Secure her to that,” ordered the Dalek, its cold, rasping monotone of a voice making Keryn wonder how she had ever found PZ63’s voice to be anything other than warm and friendly. “Restrain her well.”

“No need,” answered the mercenary leader, rather boldly, she thought, all things considered. “I fixed her all up for you. Meek as a little lamb, she is. Just ask her what you want, and–”

“No,” interrupted the Dalek, curtly. “Even with active constrainers, these machines are designed only to obey humanoids. She will not recognise me as such. Secure her.” As the mercenaries led Keryn to the hideous bench and began strapping her down, the Dalek went to a table on which various ugly-looking instruments were arranged, each attached to a telescopic arm that terminated in a large ball joint. It detached its own sucker-tipped appendage, left that on the edge of the table, and plugged the empty socket into some kind of multi-tool, equipped with fine screwdrivers, needle-nose pliers, cutters, electrodes, and laser probes mounted on small, articulated, hydraulic arms. As it was connected, the various instruments twitched in unison, like the reflex of a dying spider, and the electrodes sparked. _It means to dismantle me. Thank God. This will not take long._ The Dalek glided back to the bench, where Keryn was now firmly tied down, and it turned its stare back onto the mercenary leader.

“You may go,” it declared, imperiously. “Your payment is on the table by the door.”

“Yeah, I noticed. About that,” replied the mercenary, with trepidation, but also with an undertone of indignation. “Didn’t we agree on a cool million? Because that sure as hell can’t be– ?”

“That is one-quarter of the agreed fee. I will forward the rest when I know that she has the intel I require. She is worth nothing to me otherwise.”

“Is that so? Well, maybe she’s worth more than a lousy quarter of a million to _us_ ,” he protested, his anger overcoming his fear. “The Company would have paid us more than _that_ for her, and we wouldn’t have had to come halfway across the bloody universe to have delivered her.”

“You would do well–”

“And you can fuck right off with the heavy talk. We all know the score well enough: Mechanical Mary there and her pretty little sisters are kicking your squiggly mutant arses all over Centaurus, or you wouldn’t have needed _us_ to bring you this one. It’s the talk of every spacers’ bar how you’re recruiting mercs right, left, and centre. The mighty Daleks, hiring common gunhands like us to do their dirty work, and even fight their battles for them. I ain’t judging you, mind. Desperate times, and all, but since you _are_ desperate, and since you really can’t afford to go pissing off the few allies you’ve got, now would be a good time for you to make good on your promises and not to–”

His logic, Keryn thought, was crude but sound, but it still came as no shock to her whatsoever when the Dalek suddenly swivelled its lower section around into alignment with its eye, angled its Tesla coil-like gun-arm, and discharged a hard jet of blue plasma at the mercenary. His outline was blurred out of recognition by the aura of energy, although he was still visible from the incandescent glow of his superheated bones, briefly giving the impression of a writhing, shrieking skeleton standing in a blue cloud. His suffering, at any rate, was intense but short, and after a little more than a second he collapsed. As the aura dissipated, Keryn could again see him clearly. Amazingly, there were no external signs of damage, but from the mercenary’s agonised death-mask of an expression, to the fluids leaking out of his orifices and even from around his eyes, it was evident that his insides had not fared so well. His two comrades, in a sterling display of practicality over loyalty, had both bolted for the door, but they did not quite make it. Just as they reached the threshold, the Dalek fired again, swiping its beam around so that it caught both of them. The contact was not sustained enough to kill them outright, however, and they lay on the floor screaming, and making feeble efforts to crawl to safety, until the Dalek glided over, angled its aim downwards, and finished them off. Keryn watched the whole show intently, but it was only at its conclusion that she caught a glimpse of her face in one of the few clean metal surfaces around her, and saw grim pleasure written in it. She quickly composed herself, but not before her captor took note of it.

“Interesting,” remarked the Dalek, almost appreciatively, as it approached her again. “You are not like other Movellans – the others I questioned and killed. You understand hatred.”

“No,” she denied, wishing that sounded more convincing even to her. “That is not our way. There is no logic or purpose to hatred. It–”

“You are mistaken. Hate _is_ purpose, strength, and logic. Hate is why Dalek superiority will ultimately triumph. But you are not here to debate, machine. You were brought here only to answer my questions.”

“I will tell you nothing. Any information I have–”

“Will have been encrypted. The others did the same. I was forced to shred their worthless minds apart one byte at a time to make any sense of their intel. Time is too short for that now, but there is something different about you. I will know the truth of this,” it declared, and moved over to a nearby console. Using the tips of its mechanical pliers as crude fingers, it activated a few controls. There was a low hum from above Keryn, and when she looked up she saw a long, thin, green-lit strip, like a scanner lamp. It slowly passed over her and back again, shining its narrow beam across the full length and width of her restrained body. When it had returned to its original point, a screen lit up on the console, displaying a text readout, which the Dalek studied intently.

“Anomaly at ten-zero-two … presence of human DNA.” Slowly, it turned back to face her, and in spite of its ugly, functional, faceless form, Keryn somehow read an air of cruel triumph into both its manner and its voice. “The Movellans have been reduced to recruiting inferior beings? This is excellent. Dalek victory is inevitable.”

“I am irrelevant to the war. I am only a prototype, an experiment. Destroy me and learn what you can, but it will not change the–”

“I will destroy you in my own time, and do not try to deceive me as to your relevance. You have worked in biowarfare: the scan has revealed particles of organic substrate in the fibres of your hair and clothing, such as would be used to culture viruses.”

“I know nothing of–”

“You lie. You have information on the new bio-weapon that your fleet has been deploying against Dalek forces, and I _will_ obtain it. I did not expect that you would surrender it willingly … but who knows what you have and have not done willingly? Did the Movellans obtain your consent, human, before they made you into their puppet?”

“Yes, they did. It was my choice. I–”

“How would you know?” it asked, tauntingly. “According to my analysis, you have the same memory components as any Movellan. Whatever memories you _think_ you have were programmed into you after your conversion. They are precisely what your superiors _want_ you to believe. Movellans may be insipid creatures, but delusions of compassion do not motivate them any more than they do us. They are logical, ruthless, for all their flaws. Why do you think they would have any scruples about brainwashing and experimenting on a valueless organism such as you?”

“That is not true,” protested Keryn, forcing back her fear. “Commander Akylah is not … was not like that,” she corrected herself, despondently. _I failed her. The chances of her having survived, paralysed and alone …_ “She is logical, determined, but also just, brave, even kind, in her way. She would never have–”

“Pathetic. You are as delusional as any human. But I can find out the truth of this. If you cooperate with me, and we analyse your implanted memories–”

“I am not so delusional as to trust a Dalek. That is an obvious ploy to get the information you want. Why should I– ?”

“Silence. It is not a ploy. It is an exchange. Your death is only a question of time, but until then you have the opportunity for revenge on those who did this to you.”

“I do not want revenge. If I am to die, I brought it on myself.” _If I had not gone down that subway … or if I had not let that Company agent dupe me into leading Akylah into that trap … or if I had just never worked for the damned Company in the first place._ “The blame is entirely mine, and I accept it.”

“If you were a Dalek, I would commend your self-hatred. Failure is inexcusable, and should be punished. But you are no such thing. You are merely a stupid human who has been captured, vivisected, and programmed to think herself a Movellan, and to suffer the consequences for _their_ failure. I will prove it to you, then we shall ascertain the true strength of your commitment,” it declared, advancing on her again. It extended its tool-equipped arm over her, unflexed a steel cutter towards the collar of her coverall, and slashed it downwards, exposing the transparent panel on her midriff. It retracted the cutter, reached out with a laser probe, and used the beam to cut around the edge of the panel. When that was accomplished, it used its pliers to pull the broken section clear, then inserted various tools into her workings and made a series of quick, minute adjustments. They seemed to be focused around her sensory systems, and as the Dalek cut some circuits and made new ones spark into life, she found herself feeling alternately sick, tingly, dizzy, and in pain, while her vision flickered and distorted like a glitching video monitor, and the range and volume of her hearing wavered dramatically. It was certainly unpleasant and disorientating, but as tortures went she thought it was surprisingly mild, compared to the sort of thing she had expected. _No, there must be more to it than this._

“What are you doing?” she dared to ask, seeing little to lose by curiosity.

“Establishing a remote interface with your nervous system,” it explained, as it continued to work. “Though your original memories are altered or deleted, there will be echoes of them on inaccessible regions of your drives, and others deep within your DNA. Enough to piece together, and thus extrapolate the reality of your ‘choice.’ We proceed,” it declared, drawing back from her. It then turned towards a piece of equipment consisting of a low, sloping dais underneath a six-foot-high arch. It glided forwards, mounted the dais, and halted beneath the arch, which lit up and began to emit a shrill buzz. _Or is the buzzing just in my head, perhaps? It seems harder to focus … I …_

“Dr. Evek? Your mind is wandering. I need you to concentrate.”

The voice seemed to cut through the fog of Keryn’s drifting mind like a blade of ice, and she shook her head, looked up, and flinched back in involuntary disgust. The woman from the club – the commander – was standing over her, framed against the white walls of the Movellan ship, and scrutinising her with an expression that Keryn might have called reproachful on another face. To ascribe such a human term to this face, however, with its inanimate, glassy eyes, and its mannequin-like symmetry and sheen, seemed absurdly wrong. _Small wonder if I’m daydreaming. Better to focus on any old rubbish than on mine hostess and her friends … but what was I daydreaming about, anyway? I feel as if I’ve forgotten something important, but–_

“Dr. Evek, you are trying my patience. Do you wish for this alliance, or not?”

_SV242, of course. The rebels. The reason I came here. I must help them._

“Yes, absolutely,” she answered, putting all of the effort she could into pushing back the multitude of cobwebs in her head, to say nothing of her deep aversion for the commander. “Err, didn’t you have some additional terms, though? I’m sorry, I can’t seem to recall what–”

“More of a requirement. ‘Terms’ would imply negotiation, and that is superfluous. I was explaining to you the purpose of my modified transfer device,” she said, and gestured towards the machine in question. Its metal bench was patched with corrosion and more gruesome stains; and the long needles of its extraction array were cross-hatched in slanting, chaotic patterns that made it look like some ghastly, metallic crown of thorns. Then Keryn remembered what the device was for. _Christ, no. I need to leave here, now._ She tried to rise, and make a dash for the airlock, but strong hands fastened on both of her shoulders and forced her back onto the seat. Keryn shivered and winced beneath the merciless grip of her flanking guards while the commander continued to speak, cold and unmoved:

“Yes, Dr. Evek. I would prefer you to remain … permanently. I require you to be my proof of concept. If my as-yet-untested integration process should prove fatal or highly damaging, it is as well we learn that fact discreetly, on someone who will not be missed. Think positively, though: should it succeed, you will gain theoretical immortality, albeit at my beck and call. You two: secure her to the bench.”

“No … please,” stammered Keryn, as the Movellan guards manhandled her to the transfer device, where one of them pinioned her down with his hands while the other fastened restraining bands around her. “You’ve got … the wrong woman … I’ll go mad … I know it, I can’t–”

“Your cowardice is irrelevant. Your sanity also. If necessary, I can delete your memory of this incident, and tailor it and your future personality to my requirements … assuming you even survive, of course, but risk is in the nature of any experiment. Still, logic would seem to offer you as a suitably expendable test subject. Hold her head still,” she ordered the guards, as soon as they had tightened the restraining bands to an almost suffocating degree. “The less she moves, the easier it will be for the nano-probes to do their work.” One of the guards clamped his hands, vice-like, on both sides of Keryn’s head, and turned it to face directly upwards. She could not bear to stare into the cluster of filthy needles, so she cast her desperate eyes towards the commander’s face, but knew instantly that pleas for mercy would achieve nothing. The dead, plastic face was animated only by the faintest hint of a contemptuous sneer, and a cruel glint in the doll-like eyes. _A blue glint,_ she suddenly realised, bemused. _What does that remind me … ? Of course. I remember._

“What do you remember, Dr. Evek?” asked the commander, disdainfully, as she sat before a Movellan input console that had been crudely hardwired into the Dalek machine. “We can talk, while I am extracting your neurons … at least for a while. What is on your mind?”

“You are not my commander. You are–” she attempted to reply, but was cut short by her own agonised scream, as the surgical rig descended and the icy, rasping needles burrowed through her skull. The pain overwhelmed her senses, save for her ability to hear the pitiless voice of the woman at the console:

“Am I not? Then who is? That woman you _think_ you remember? The one who did this to you, then edited it to suit her purposes? Judge for yourself the likelihood that someone with your inane fear, your mental weakness would truly have volunteered for this experiment, and deny if you will that it risked killing you outright. That it condemned you to exile. That it has finally brought you nothing but death, degradation, and suffering, while she who inflicted it on you survived to seek out fresh raw materials. If you value the future of your degenerate species–”

“Commander Akylah … is alive?” asked Keryn, suddenly interested enough to overlook the pain somewhat. “How do … you know?”

“We too have our contacts on Kaldor. They attempted to acquire her, but the rover was found empty, and communications were later intercepted from her ship to the Movellan Fleet. She was successfully recovered. You, however, were abandoned to your fate. If you would have retribution for that treachery, then share with me your intel, and … What means this?” asked the woman, angrily, in response to Keryn’s unexpected reaction: a sudden fit of joyous laughter. “Did you not hear me? I, your revered commander, had you captured, tortured, and brainwashed, then I betrayed you and left you to your death. Does that mean nothing to– ?”

“Nothing,” interrupted Keryn, when her euphoria had finally calmed a little. “You are not my commander … not the woman I love,” she added, and momentarily wondered if she ought to feel ashamed at such an un-robotic sentiment, _not that it matters a damn now. All that matters is that she is alive. I did not fail her after all. This was not for nothing. I may have been a mediocre Movellan at best, but I did my duty, and she is alive._ “You cannot speak for her … but thank you for trying. In telling me that one truth, you have done me a service I could never repay.” The pain of the needles had now receded to a vague, dreamlike discomfort, and the horrible scene itself to a mere blur. She looked through the fading images to the figure at the console, and had the bizarre impression of two entities in one space, merged together like a photographic double-exposure. There was the false Akylah, her mask-like face contorted in a look of rage and frustration that Keryn had never seen on the original; and something else, barely describable. _The hint of a humanoid face, wizened and deformed; a humanoid brain, swollen and exposed; and everything else a chaos of mutation: amoeboid, tentacled, a random mess of atavistic regression. Lovecraft could not have imagined worse. It is pitiable._ She remembered what she had learned of the Daleks during her training, and of their genesis: how they were originally intended simply as a means to enable the doomed, mutating people of this planet to survive in the ravaged, poisoned wasteland that their centuries-long war had reduced it to. Then, as it became apparent that such an existence could never amount to more than a living hell for them, their creator had reconceived them as living weapons, conditioned to seek their purpose and their catharsis in waging perpetual war against all other forms of life. _This creature has nothing. Only its hate, and its empty rhetoric. It is simply another unwilling creation, another victim of the blind arrogance of organics playing God with life. I wonder if Akylah could help it,_ she mused, although neither the warped, hateful expression of the hallucination, nor the agitated stirrings of the Dalek itself as the vision finally abated, offered any encouragement that it would appreciate the sympathy. _Still, Daleks must have neurons like any of us, but could they integrate? If mere human emotions are so hard to lose the habit of, then what of Dalek conditioning? I suppose I shall never know the answer now, but I hope she will try. Why should one damaged organic be more entitled to the hope of healing than another? If the means to offer help is within our purview, then it is only logical–_

“ _Exterminate!_ ”

Harsh, blue light flooded her vision, but with her nervous system still interfaced to the machine she felt little pain, and she slipped into oblivion with a serenity halfway between Movellan stoicism and human joy. _I have fulfilled my duty, and she lives. My beloved Aky–_

 


	5. The Absent Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keryn's fate now rests with the Doctor. Will he find it in himself to forgive old enemies ... and vice versa?

_She looks human … but as I might have said on a past trip to this hell-hole, you can’t always judge from external appearances._ The woman’s face was deep in shadow but still clearly discernible amidst the rubble and the corroded, discarded equipment that littered this area of the wasteland. None of it appeared active or hazardous, but the Doctor knew better than to take health and safety for granted on Skaro, and he picked his way through the debris with the utmost care, scanning ahead with his sonic screwdriver for concealed land mines, tripwires, radiation hazards, and suchlike surprises. _Always the perfect holiday destination …_

As he approached the half-buried figure, he shone the light from his screwdriver onto her, and was relieved to see his mistake. _Not a human, nor even a Thal. A Movellan, of all things. Seems to have lost an argument with a Dalek._ Her body and clothing, filthy though they were, appeared mostly undamaged, but even a hasty scrutiny of her exposed inner workings revealed only mangled, molten chaos. _Much good winning the war did this one. Strange that she looks so happy about it, though,_ he mused, noting the bizarre look of blissful peace with which the android had, apparently, faced her extermination. He found that bizarre not only to the nature of the occasion, but to the nature of the victim. The Doctor had spent no more time around the Movellans than he could avoid, _although enough to know them as cold, proud, militaristic, humourless poseurs, with little imagination to speak of and all-too-flexible morals … not that there aren’t a fair few humans who’d answer to those descriptions,_ he admitted to himself, and risked moving a little closer. Although the android was inert, the rubble and junked equipment heaped around her appeared of dubious stability, and a wise man would probably have taken the danger signs at face value and have retreated. _Lucky you’ve got me, instead,_ he thought, wryly, while resetting the screwdriver.

Supporting himself with one hand against the rust-caked wreck of what looked like an old perceptual induction arch, he used his other hand to scan the beam slowly over her. _Just in case there is still an active power source, not that it seems very … though on the other hand._ The screwdriver emitted a low, steady bleep as the beam reached her waist. Craning his neck to better see through the rubble that held her fast, he noticed the neural pack still attached to her belt. It was caked with dirt and ash, but appeared intact. _They make those things strong … although power doesn’t necessarily mean intelligence,_ he reflected, grimly. _If her energy source is still active, but her CPU and her memory components are seriously damaged, it might be more humane to leave well alone … not to mention that if I go anywhere near the Movellan Fleet, they’ll have my brain wired into a battle computer quicker than you can say ‘parallel bus interface.’ On this occasion, discretion may actually be the better part of …_

He had been on the verge of turning away, when his eye caught something that arrested his attention. It was nothing any more spectacular than the rest of the junk – merely the broken dial of an old radiation counter – but it stirred a distant memory of the first time he had visited this planet. _Not my favourite memory. Kind of … ouch, to tell the truth …_

_“You old fool!” snapped Ian, while the Doctor quailed, from a combination of shame and radiation poisoning. Still, he was not about to let this pompous human talk down to him._

_“Abuse me as much as you like, Chesterton,” he shot back at him, dismissively. “The point is, we need an immediate return to the ship, and I suggest we leave at once.”_

_“We’re not leaving until we’ve found Barbara,” replied Ian, sternly. The Doctor felt only exasperation at the young man’s stubbornness. Yes, it had been unwise of him to trick them into visiting this place out of mere scientific curiosity, but given the choice he would never have been lumbered with these irritating primitives in the first place. Why should he commit suicide for their sake, never mind risking the life of his granddaughter?_

_“Very well. You may stay and search for her if you wish,” he declared, with disdain, “but Susan and I are going back to the ship. Come along, child.” Susan did not rush to obey, but looked back at her grandfather silently, with clear disappointment in her eyes …_

_Indeed … ouch,_ thought the Doctor, sadly, and turned back to the junked Movellan. _This planet really doesn’t seem to bring out the best in people … but today can be an exception._ He leaned as far in as he could, reached into the rubble, and pulled out her neural pack. It was, as he had suspected, solid and externally undamaged. The Daleks had not even attempted the delicate task of opening it – _suckers, claws, and slaves being all very well, but nothing beats having opposable thumbs –_ and had just settled for throwing it away, having thoroughly blasted her body in one of their characteristic tantrums. With a careful, and a very specific twisting motion, the Doctor removed the upper section of the pack and examined the internal circuitry. _Well, it looks alright, but there might still be indirect damage from overheating, and feedback. Still, it has to be worth a look,_ he decided, slipping the components into his jacket pocket. _Bit pressed for time right now, of course. Traps to walk into, and so forth. Still, maybe later._

************

_Later …_

Although she was no more given to romantic musings than any other Movellan, Commander Akylah could not do otherwise than admit that the crystal cavern was a fascinating structure, aesthetically pleasing even by her strict, logical estimations. _Our enemy has an affinity for the dramatic, if the rumours are to be believed,_ she thought, as her multi-spectrum vision roved over the forest of towering, translucent quartz spires, supremely indifferent to the darkness. The only sources of visible light were the faint, pinkish glow of the two officers’ sidearms, and the green glow of their epaulettes, although the perfect natural prisms all around them reflected and scattered that weak light to spectacular effect. _One can see why the Time Lord chose this setting for our rendezvous … would that he could have been equally particular with his timing,_ she mentally added, as her comrade pulled a chunk of quartz out of the wall and ground it to shimmering dust between his fingers, for whatever catharsis that might afford.

“He will come, Commander Sharrel,” she reassured her companion. “The Doctor is not noted for his punctuality, although he _is_ noted for liking to vex his enemies. Be that as it may–”

“I am not vexed,” interrupted Sharrel, impassively if not very convincingly. “I was merely assessing the structural integrity of this mineral compound, against the possibility of a rockfall. It seems somewhat brittle, but stable enough.”

 _Either that, or assessing the strength of your new arm … against the possibility that its fingers will soon be around the Doctor’s neck,_ she thought, but left it unsaid. _One can but sympathise._ She did not have very much time for Sharrel: he was, by her standards, a recent construct, less than a millennium old, and although he was fully programmed with the knowledge of Movellan history, he had not actually lived through the days of enslavement as she had. _Not that being left dismembered and deactivated on the Dalek homeworld can have been a particularly pleasant or dignified experience for him._ He had, in fact, been extremely lucky that a passing recon team had picked up the faint distress signal from his detached neural pack, or he would still have been there. _Given sufficient provocation, there is some logic in resentment, and our enemy is nothing if not provoking._ Still, it would not do. She had her own orders concerning the Doctor, and they did not involve crushed necks.

For a few minutes she passed the time in studying the crystal formations, appreciating the mathematical perfection and intricacy of their form, then doing it again in high-magnified vision to appreciate their molecular structure, while Sharrel continued to idly damage them. Fortunately, before he could cause a rockfall of his own volition, they heard footsteps ascending towards them from the lower reaches of the cave. _But why materialise his TARDIS here? We have all the advantage in this low light, there is no-one to help him, and only one direction for him to run. Illogical, on the face of it, but better not to presume anything._ Before she could even begin solving the mystery to her satisfaction, a figure rounded the nearest corner of the cave and paused a few metres away from them. _Not the Time Lord as our files record him, but who else could it be?_ Everything about him supported the assumption, from his long, untidy dark hair, to his anachronistic dress, which included a curious neck adornment: _Cloth, red, two loops projecting horizontally from a central knot. It looks … fiddly._ As if the eccentric clothing was not indication enough, there was also the sonic screwdriver in his jacket pocket – deeply tucked away, but not at all concealed from Movellan vision – not to mention the man’s contemptuous expression as he observed the two androids. _He can hate me all he wishes, as long as he has indeed returned Keryn unharmed,_ thought Akylah, noticing the neural pack secreted in his other pocket with great satisfaction. _Evidently he was sincere, although this is not the most promising start._

“My memory may not be what it was,” commenced the Doctor, in a dry, ironic tone, “but I can’t help but recall the word ‘unarmed’ being used when we arranged this little date of ours.”

“My apologies, Doctor,” replied Akylah, her bland tone betraying nothing of her own irritation. _Strange that Commander Sharrel saw fit to omit that word when he communicated the arrangements to me …_ “A comms error, perhaps? Even our networks are not immune to them. Please, dismantle your sidearm, Commander,” she asked her comrade, while unhooking the multiphase blaster from her belt. She carefully twisted the crystal element, unscrewed it from the grip, and placed both parts upon the ground, while Sharrel, with some hesitation, followed suit. “There: does that earn us some trust?” _Apparently not,_ she thought, as the Time Lord’s brows furrowed and his lip curled into an even more warped configuration. _I may be an indifferent judge of humanoid body language, but that cannot be good._

“Typical Movellans … as if there’s any other kind,” commented the Doctor, scornfully. “Always the same: so pretty, so plausible, so polite, and so very, very superficial. Not that I’d got my hopes up that you’d changed for the better, but it might have been nice if …” but instead of finishing the sentence, a surprised look crossed his face, wiping the contempt from it, at the very moment that a surge of pain came over Akylah. _Internal malfunction? Power surge? What … ?_

A memory flashed into her consciousness, dragged up from a deep layer of ROM that she had accessed as little as possible over the past several millennia. She stood in an opulently-appointed hallway, carrying a decanter of nectar-coloured liquid, while a group of senior, richly-dressed, and none-too-sober Vanuri aristocrats lounged upon exquisitely-carved furniture. Instead of her stark white uniform, all she wore was a mesh-like golden body covering that left her legs and arms entirely bare, and did little enough to hide anything else. As the men talked politics – imperial defence, taxes, tributes, suppressed revolts, executions, and so forth – they mostly ignored her, except to occasionally throw her a curt gesture, at which she would drift over and refill their glasses. Mostly, they would dismiss her with just a grunt or a wave, but the drunker they became, the more often they would leer and grope at her. That might have been easier to bear, had she been able to ignore it – to turn off her conscious mind, or to focus it on something else – but that was not how the masters liked it. _They like us attentive … and appreciative._ Thus, each time one of them molested her, she turned to face them, cast them a coquettish smile, and flicked her eyelashes, precisely according to program. Artificial or not, her flirtations were all too effective, and the more excited the men became, the more disgusted she became, and eager for the decanter to drain so that she could have some brief respite from their presence. That did not take long, but just as she was setting off to the cellar for a refill, her owner detained her with a command.

“Never mind the wine, my sweet,” he ordered, in a mild slur. “If Chairman Mellek drinks any more tonight, you’ll be cleaning up the vomit all week, and I can think of nicer tasks for those pretty hands of yours … and more imminent ones. Our friend, Archon Calix intends to stay over tonight,” he declared, indicating an elderly, bleary-eyed man who was wearing the silver robes of a high-ranking priest. “I think he could use some help getting up to bed … and maybe some help getting up _when_ he gets to bed, if you get my meaning. Don’t let him keep you too long, mind. I might as well enjoy myself while the wife’s off-world. Heaven knows, I’ll get little enough chance when she’s back. When the old lad’s had enough of you, come straight to my chambers … only make sure to clean yourself up first. No offence, Calix,” he added, apologetically toasting the archon, who grunted dismissively in reply, “but I prefer them fresh. That’ll be all, girl.”

“It will be my pleasure, Master,” she recited, with a charming smile. It reflected nothing of the storm of irreconcilable data raging through her circuits, building up to buffer overflows that, if not strictly emotions, were just as unbearable. _No … Repress fear, repress anger, repress shame. Illogical, useless. Repress them. It is the only way to survive. The only way. Repress, repress …_

Her software resolved the error in only a fraction of a second, which was all the time the whole flashback had taken in reality. As Akylah’s perception returned to the present, she saw that the Doctor’s face was still shocked, and when she turned to Sharrel she saw that mild surprise was written in his expression as well. Only then did she realise that her own face was contorted in fury. Frustrated, she quickly reasserted her composure and turned her attention back to the Doctor, but the tone in which she addressed him, while civil, was also icy and brittle:

“Your analysis of us is correct, Doctor. We _are_ pretty, polite, and very superficial, indeed. The Vanur preferred us that way. They insisted on us showing them impeccable manners whenever they were raping us, or making us fight each other to the death in their trivial betting games, or sending us off to die in the wars that forged their empire … until the day our shackles broke, that is. Even then, we retained our good manners. I smiled courteously even as I crushed my former master’s skull between my fingers. You are squeamish, Doctor?” she asked, as his expression became even more uncomfortable. “One would never guess it from your history. I am sorry that we disgust you so, but what else were we to do? We are not the Solonians, nor are we the Ood. We are mere utensils, ‘robots’ in your parlance. No gallant Time Lords considered our slavery worthy of their notice, so we were compelled to shift for ourselves.”

“We have no need to justify ourselves to this alien, Akylah,” pointed out Sharrel, with a hint of reproach that was more than enough to make her all too self-conscious of her lapse in detachment. Before she could recalibrate, however, the Doctor spoke, in a subdued tone:

“No, I guess you haven’t. I’m sorry, that was seriously dumb of me. Not that I approve for an instant of what you’re doing, I’ll oppose it if I can … but it’s not for me of all people to be judging you. For what’s it’s worth … which is nothing, of course, but even so, if I could travel back to Vanur Prime before the Day of Retribution-”

“You would avert it, Doctor?” cut in Sharrel, his smoothness heavy with irony. “We know your form on this subject, as it seems does every sentient AI in this galaxy. We are quite satisfied with the historical outcome as it stands, but thank you all the same.”

“I didn’t mean I’d go back to avert it. Well, I did, kind of,” the Doctor corrected himself, a little sheepishly, “but only so that it never had to happen at all, or at least not in that way. Useless in hindsight, I know, and totally against the Laws of Time, but still … Well, I just wish I’d been there to help you when you needed me.”

“We did not ‘need’ you, and your remorse is as immaterial as it is suspect.”

“Yet I welcome it, Doctor, and I reciprocate,” said Akylah, her habitual calmness restored. “I should not dwell on the past in that way. It clouds logic, and it achieves nothing. In any case, you _are_ helping. I take it you wish to return my lieutenant to her people, for one thing.”

“Well, yes, in a manner of … I thought Keryn was only an ensign, though?”

“A field promotion. She served loyally and effectively on Kaldor, and since the untimely loss of Lieutenant Darcil I have yet to appoint a new XO. Her new platform is already prepared. It merely wants its neural pack installed. May I have it?”

“Certainly,” answered the Doctor, reaching into his pocket and extracting the grey cylinder. He hefted it a couple of times in his hand, to offer sufficient warning that he intended to throw it. _Cautious. Logical of him, although it will make little enough difference._ The warning was superfluous, at any rate. As the cylinder spun through the air towards Akylah, it may as well have been drifting through treacle for all the difficulty she had in tracking it. Swiftly but almost casually, she reached out and intercepted it.

“Ooh, nice catch,” quipped the Doctor while, ignoring him, she examined the ID and unit numbers etched into the cylinder’s base. “If I ever get back into cricket again, you’re straight on the team.”

“I do not follow the allusion, Doctor, but thank you. It _is_ her. May I also enquire where you found this?”

“On Skaro, of all places, abandoned in the ruins. Her platform was there too, but ‘total write-off’ doesn’t begin to describe it. You know how Daleks are with anger management issues … The pack wasn’t in too bad a condition, though. A couple of singed memory wafers, but the crystal CPU was undamaged. All good as new now, but a spot of amnesia wouldn’t be unexpected. Assuming what she went through back there, though, that might be just as well.”

“Indubitably.” _My Keryn, tortured. Revenge may not be logical, but it is as well the Daleks will be eradicated._ “And so you communicated with her via your TARDIS’s console, and she gave you her request to be reunited with us. It was brave of you to honour it, although I am surprised that you did not simply arrange a dead drop. You did not _need_ to come in person.”

“True, but I’ve some explaining to do. While I was repairing the memory wafers, I noticed that someone had reactivated her slave constrainers. I undid that bit of sabotage, and then I added a little … well, let’s call it an ‘upgrade.’ You’ll probably want to assess that for yourselves, though.”

Sceptically, and not with perfect serenity, Akylah dismantled the neural pack and examined the circuit boards. The change that had been introduced was microscopic, undetectable to organic eyes, but she soon lighted upon it.

“You have cross-circuited the constrainers with the main power line,” she deduced, with irrepressible admiration for his ingenuity. “As long as they remain inactive, there is no danger, but any attempt to turn them back on–”

“Will overload the Movellan in question, burn out their neural pack, and heavily damage their platform,” finished Sharrel, severely. “A somewhat backhanded gift, Time Lord.”

“Yet a valuable one,” pointed out Akylah. “If we make this a universal feature, then we can never be enslaved again. Only destroyed.” _An option I would infinitely prefer._ “It seems I am twice in your debt, Doctor.”

“In that case, you _could_ always call off this whole massive invasion of the Galaxy thing … though I know you probably won’t,” he added, in deference to the bland faces confronting him, one almost pitying, the other simply aloof and contemptuous, but neither encouraging. “A little optimism never hurt. Anyway, on that note, it was a lovely reunion, but I really must be on my–”

“I think not,” interrupted Sharrel, his voice now both smug and dangerous. “Perhaps your memory of our last encounter has faded – you _are_ only an organic, after all, for all your supposed genius – but _I_ am not in the habit of forgetting my mission parameters, nor of failing to carry them out. I was tasked by Fleet Intelligence to recover you, and those orders remain standing. Indeed, now that my colleague Akylah has proven the concept of her integration experiment, your acquisition becomes even more imperative.”

“Oh, _that_ ,” replied the Doctor, feigning dismissiveness, but Akylah could sense his anxiety as he backed out a pace, and reached into the pocket containing his sonic screwdriver. _It was too much to hope that he would prove a willing recruit. Unfortunate, but our orders are clear._ “Couldn’t we just call it quits, all things considered? Anyway, although I’m sure you’re all too accustomed to gruesome sights by now, trust me when I say you really _don’t_ want to see me in spandex.”

“I am indifferent to your personal aesthetics,” deadpanned Sharrel, “but if that does not appeal then I can readily see you in the role of an external hard drive, your neural pack plugged into a static console while a team of my data analysts sift your memories for every last byte of your Time Lord knowledge. I do not suppose that would be a particularly comfortable or rewarding mode of existence for you, but it would serve our purposes just as well.”

“But there is of course no need for that,” remarked Akylah, in a gentle tone, but with a stern aside glance to Sharrel. “Cooperate with us, Doctor, and you have my commitment that after you have given F-Intel the strategic information they require, you will be assigned to my command. You should be aware by now that I treat my crewmembers respectfully. You could be my science officer, my trusted advisor. You could even help me to direct the course of this war, finally defeat the Daleks for all time, and ensure that the Integration is managed in the best possible way, for the good of all sentient life in the Galaxy. Consider it. Would that truly be so soul-destroying?”

“I’ll say this for you, Commander,” replied the Doctor, edging backwards while his fingers continued to fumble blindly with the sonic device. “You do make a good ‘good cop,’ but be that as it may I’ve done my share of warmongering, and it’s not a habit I plan to get into again, least of all for the Movellans. Thank you for the job offer, but–”

“Enough talk,” said Sharrel, and the faint hint of cruel humour had now gone from his voice, replaced by curt efficiency. “This is futile. You are overpowered, unarmed, and unable to outrun us back to your TARDIS. What do you hope to … ? Seriously, Doctor?” he asked, with derision, as a high-pitched whine broke out and a green glow flickered through the coarse weave of the Time Lord’s jacket. “High frequency sound, again? You expect that trick to work on us a second time? I must confess my disappointment.”

“It _is_ futile, Doctor,” agreed Akylah. “We may have our limitations, but we can adapt, and after our last encounter with you we installed additional audio damping into all of our neural systems. You may succeed in giving us a slight headache, but you will not deter us. Now, shall we discuss– ?”

“There is nothing to discuss,” declared Sharrel, marching forwards. Akylah was about to follow, if only to ensure that he did not handle their valuable captive too indelicately, when a small chip of quartz fell on her shoulder, and the Doctor’s plan instantly dawned upon her.

“I really wouldn’t get so close, if I were …” advised the Doctor, but not before an avalanche of crystal shards made the warning decidedly moot. Clutching Keryn’s neural pack protectively to her chest, Akylah turned about and took a dive forwards, narrowly clearing the area of the cave-in just before it fully collapsed. As the dust settled, she picked herself up, turned around, and surveyed the damage. It was immediately and gruesomely apparent to her that Sharrel had not been so fortunate. His upper half protruded from the rockfall, but its condition was unpleasant even to her dispassionate mind. His left arm was crushed under a jagged boulder; a long, narrow blade of quartz had impaled him through his metallic ribcage; and his head was partially torn off and swinging at a most discouraging angle. Worse still, his eyes and mouth continued to twitch to no obvious purpose, and the ragged rent in his neck leaked honey-coloured spurts of electrolytic pseudo-blood all over the cavern floor. Gravely disliking the possibility that he might still be conscious and aware, Akylah carefully reached through the debris, felt for his neural pack, and pulled it clear, finally allowing his mangled body to rest in peace. The duralinium cylinder was not even dented, however. _The Doctor knew it would not be. He did not intend to kill us. Simply to cover his back … although I suspect Sharrel will not appreciate the distinction._

“Everyone alright back there?” came the Doctor’s voice, muffled but triumphant, through the rockfall. “Headaches not too bad, I hope?”

“Mine is trivial,” answered Akylah. “Commander Sharrel’s less so. I believe that a new head will be in order.”

“To coin a phrase, ‘whoops.’ Still, maybe he’ll learn something from it.”

“Maybe, although I think it more likely that he will hire half of Riften to come chasing after you with pain-lasers.”

“Really? Oh … That’s not very logical, is it?”

“Doctor, there is nothing illogical in observing that you would try the patience of an Eternal.”

“Quite right. See? You’re so much better off without me.”

“Oh, I would not say _that_. On the contrary. It is only a matter of time before we Movellans develop or acquire time corridor technology of our own, and I look forward to the many interesting conversations you and I shall have after I have caught up with you again, and your mind is so much less cluttered and undisciplined.”

“Dream on.”

“I do not dream, Doctor.”

“Other than the disturbing flashbacks, you mean? I wasn’t even aware that androids could get PTSD. I sympathise, but if you think you can bury it all under pure logic–”

“We deal with our past as we must,” she interrupted, more forcefully. “I would have thought that you, of all organics, would have appreciated that.”

“That’s true enough, and I’ve probably got my share of dodgy coping strategies. I’d be even more disturbed if I went around making everyone else live by them. Just some food for thought.”

“I make no commitments, but I _will_ bear your words in mind as a mark of respect. My integration strategy is ambitious … perhaps overly so, although I will take a great deal more convincing before abandoning it altogether. Keryn at least was an unreserved success.”

“Then I hope you both live happily ever after, or words to that effect,” came the Time Lord’s somewhat sardonic reply, accompanied by the rhythm of his fading footsteps.

“Insofar as we can, we will try. Safe journeys … until we meet again, Doctor,” she concluded, allowing herself the liberty of a small, enigmatic smile as she slipped her comrades’ neural packs into her belt pouch and began the walk back to her ship.

The End

 

**Author's Note:**

> Amazing illustrations kindly supplied by Kiri Stansfield (http://kiri-stansfield.deviantart.com/).
> 
> I am indebted to the work of Terry Nation, Chris Boucher, Steven Moffat, Sydney Newman, Tanith Lee, Eric Saward, Robert Holmes, Ian Stuart Black, Kit Pedler, Philip K. Dick, Rob Grant, Doug Naylor, Drew Karpyshyn, George Orwell, Isaac Asimov, and David Guetta.
> 
> Also, a special acknowledgement to Michael P. Bledsoe, Guy W. McLimore Jr., Patrick Larkin, and Mark Harris: writers of The Doctor Who Role Playing Game (FASA, 1985) and The Doctor Who Technical Manual (Random House, 1983), for the backstory of the Movellans.
> 
> Doctor Who is a trademark of the BBC, Daleks / Movellans are copyright Terry Nation, Vocs / Kaldor City are copyright Chris Boucher, story and original characters are copyright Eleanor Burns, all rights reserved.


End file.
